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Sciences 
Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  NY.  14580 

(716)  872-4503 


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CIHM/ICMH 

Microfiche 

Series. 


CIHM/ICMH 
Collection  de 
microfiches. 


Canadian  Institute  for  Historical  Microreproductions  Institut  Canadian  de  microreproductions  historiques 

1980 


Technical  and  Bibliographic  Notes/Notes  techniques  et  bibliographiques 


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The  Institute  has  attempted  to  obtain  the  best 
original  copy  available  for  filming.  Features  of  this 
copy  which  may  be  bibliographically  unique, 
which  may  alter  any  of  the  images  in  the 
reproduction,  or  which  may  significantly  change 
the  usual  method  of  filming,  are  checked  below. 


L'Institut  a  microfilm^  le  meilleur  exemplaire 
qu'il  lui  a  6t6  possible  de  se  procurer.  Les  details 
de  cet  exemplaire  qui  sont  peut-dtre  uniques  du 
point  de  vue  bibliographique,  qui  peuvent  modifier 
une  image  reproduite,  ou  qui  peuvent  exiger  une 
modification  dans  la  mdthode  normale  de  filmage 
sont  indiqu6s  ci-dessous. 


Th« 
pos 
of 
filn 


D 


D 


Coloured  covers/ 
Couverture  de  couleur 


I      I    Covers  damaged/ 


Couverture  endommagde 


Covers  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Couverture  restaurie  et/ou  pelliculde 


□    Cover  title  missing/ 
Le 


titre  de  couverture  manque 


□    Coloured  pages/ 
Pages  de  couleur 

□    Pages  damaged/ 
Pages  endommagdes 

n    Pages  restored  and/or  laminated/ 
Pages  restaurdes  et/ou  pellicul6es 

yj    Pages  discoloured,  stained  or  foxed/ 
Pages  ddcolordes,  tachetdes  ou  piqudes 


Or! 
be{ 
the 
sic 
oth 
firs 
sio 
or  i 


D 
D 


D 


D 


Coloured  maps/ 

Cartes  g6ographiques  en  couleur 


Coloured  ink  (i.e.  other  than  blue  or  black)/ 
Encre  de  couleur  (i.e.  autre  que  bleue  ou  noire) 


Coloured  plates  and/or  illustrations/ 


I I    Planches  et/ou  illustrations  en  couleur 

□    Bound  with  other  material/ 
Reli6  avec  d'autres  documents 


Tight  binding  may  cause  shadows  or  distortion 
along  interior  margin/ 

La  reliure  serr6e  peut  causer  de  I'ombre  ou  de  la 
distortion  le  long  de  la  marge  intdrieure 

Blank  leaves  added  during  restoration  may 
appear  within  the  text.  Whenever  possible,  these 
have  been  omitted  from  filming/ 
II  se  peut  que  certaines  pages  blanches  ajoutdes 
lors  d'une  restauration  apparaissent  dans  le  texte. 
mais,  lorsque  cela  dtait  possible,  ces  pages  n'ont 
pas  6t6  filmdes. 


□    Pages  detached/ 
Pages  ddtachdes 

□    Showthrough/ 
Transparence 

□    Quality  of  print  varies/ 
Qualitd  indgale  de  I'impression 

I      I    Includes  supplementary  material/ 


D 


Comprend  du  materiel  supplementaire 

Only  edition  avi  '*iible/ 
Seule  Edition  disponible 


r~~j/ Pages  wholly  or  partially  obscured  by  errata 
I   ^   slips,  tissues,  etc.,  have  been  refilmed  to 
ensure  the  best  possible  image/ 
Les  pages  totaiement  ou  partiellement 
obscurcies  par  un  feuillet  d'errata,  une  pelure. 
etc.,  ont  6t6  filmdes  d  nouveau  de  fagon  & 
obtenir  la  meilleure  image  possible. 


Th( 
sh£ 

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wh 

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dif1 
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be{ 
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req 
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Additional  comments:/ 
Commentaires  suppldmentaires.- 


FTf 


10X 


This  item  is  filmed  at  the  reduction  ratio  checked  below/ 

Ce  document  est  film6  au  taux  de  reduction  indiquA  ci-dessous. 

14X  18X  22X 


26X 


30X 


12X 


16X 


20X 


24X 


28X 


32X 


The  copy  filmed  here  has  been  reproduced  thanks 
to  the  generosity  of: 

National  Library  of  Canada 


L'exemplaire  film6  fut  reproduit  grSce  d  la 
g6n6rosit6  de: 

Bibliothdque  nationale  du  Canada 


The  images  appearing  here  are  the  best  quality 
possible  considering  the  condition  and  legibility 
of  the  original  copy  and  in  keeping  with  the 
filming  contract  specifications. 


Les  images  suivanies  ont  6t6  reproduites  avec  le 
plus  grand  soin,  compte  tenu  de  la  condition  et 
de  la  nettet^  de  l'exemplaire  film6,  et  en 
conformity  avec  les  conditions  du  contrat  de 
filmage. 


Original  copies  in  printed  paper  covers  are  •  limed 
beginning  with  the  front  cover  and  ending  on 
the  last  page  with  a  prnted  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, or  the  back  cover  when  appropriate.  All 
other  original  copies  are  filmed  beginning  on  the 
first  page  with  a  printed  or  illustrated  impres- 
sion, and  ending  on  the  last  page  with  a  printed 
or  illustrated  impression. 


The  last  recorded  frame  on  each  microfiche 
shall  contain  the  symbol  —«^  (meaning  "CON- 
TINUED "),  or  the  symbol  V  (meaning  "END"), 
whichever  applies. 


Les  exemplaires  originaux  dont  la  couverture  en 
papier  est  imprimie  sont  filmds  en  commenpant 
par  le  premier  plat  et  en  terminant  soit  par  la 
dernidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration,  soit  par  le  second 
plat,  selon  le  cas.  Tous  les  autres  exemplaires 
originaux  sont  filmds  en  commengant  par  la 
premidre  page  qui  comporte  une  empreinte 
d'impression  ou  d'illustration  et  en  terminant  par 
la  dernidre  page  qui  comporte  uno  telle 
empreinte. 

Un  des  symboles  suivants  apparaitra  sur  la 
dernidre  image  de  chaque  microfiche,  selon  le 
cas:  le  symbole  -^  signifie  "A  SUIVRE",  le 
symbole  V  signifie  "FIN". 


Maps,  plates,  charts,  etc.,  may  be  filmed  at 
different  reduction  ratios.  Those  too  large  to  be 
entirely  included  in  one  exposure  are  filmed 
beginning  in  the  upper  left  hand  corner,  left  to 
right  and  top  to  bottom,  as  many  frames  as 
required.  The  following  diagrams  illustrate  the 
method: 


Les  cartes,  planches,  tableaux,  etc.,  peuvent  dtre 
film6s  d  des  taux  de  reduction  diffdrents. 
Lorsque  le  document  est  trop  grand  pour  dtre 
reproduit  en  un  seul  clich6,  il  est  film6  d  partir 
de  Tangle  supdrieur  gauche,  de  gauche  d  droite, 
et  de  haut  en  bas,  en  prenant  le  nombre 
d'images  n^cessaire.  Les  diagrammes  suivants 
illustrent  la  mdthode. 


1 

2 

3 

t 

2 

3 

'     -^-^ 

5 

6 

'W 


HARPER'S   LIBRARY  OF 
SELECT  NOVELS. 

or  Mailing  Notice.— UABS-m  &  KsoTiiiins  ivill  send  6ieir  lUmks  hij  Mail,  postage /rei\  to  any  2>arl  Cjf  the  Uniled 

Staten,  on  reoeijit  0/  the  Price. 


rmrE 

1.  rellmm.    By  nulwer $«  Jft 

'i.  The  Disowueii.     Ky  Hulwer IB 

3.  Oevereiix.     Uy  liulwer Bi) 

4.  I'aul  i;littor(l.     ISy  Hulwer f><> 

5.  Kugene  Aram.     Ily  Hulwer 50 

0.  The  Last  Days  of  PoiiipeiL     By  liulwer 'M 

7.  The  t;zariua.     Hy  iMrs.  lloHand &<• 

8.  Kienzi.     liy  Hulwer 75 

U.  Kelf-Oevotion.     Hy  Mi»9  Campbell M 

10.  The  Nabob  at  Home &i* 

11.  Krnest  Slaltravel-s.     Hy  liulwer 60 

12.  Alice ;  or,  The  Myeteries.     Hy  Hulwer 50 

13.  The  Ijist  of  the  I'.aroii.s.     Hy  l;uUver 1  00 

14.  Forest  Days.     Hy  James 50 

15.  Adam  Hrown,  the  Merchuut.     Hy  II.  Smith  ...  50 

Itt.  I'ilgriins  of  the  lihine.     Hy  Hulwer 25 

IT.  The  Home,     liy  Miss  Hrenier i* 

18.  The  Lo^t  Ship.     Hy  t'aptnin  Neale 75 

19.  The  False  Heir.     Hy.lames 6) 

20.  The  Neighbors.     By  Miss  Hremer 60 

iil.  Nina.     Hy  Miss  Bremer 50 

i2.  The  I'rei^iilent's  Daughters.     By  Miss  Hremer. .  26 

23.  The  ItHuker's  Wife.     Hy  Mrs.  tiore f>0 

24.  The  Hirtbriglit.     Hy  Mri-.  (iore ' 25 

25.  NewSketchesof  l>ery-day  Life.  Hy  Miss  Bremer  60 

26.  Arabella  Stuart.     Hy  .luuies M 

27.  Tho  (irumbler.     By  Miss  I'ickering 60 

23.  The  LInloved  One.     Hy  Mrs.  Holland DO 

29.  Jack  of  the  Mill.     Hy  William  llowitt il 

80.  The  1  leretic.     Hy  l.ajetclinikoff 50 

31.  The  ,lew.     Hy  Spiadlcr 75 

32.  Arthur.     By  Sue 75 

,H3.  t'hatsworth.     Hy  Ward 60 

34.  The  I'rairie  Bird.     By  (J.  A.  Jlurray :  UO 

35.  Amy  Herbert.     By  Miss  Scwell 50 

30.  Hose  d' Albret.     By  .lames 60 

37.  The  Triumphs  of  Time.     Hy  Mrs.  Marsh 75 

38.  The  II lamily.     Hy  Miss  Hromer W) 

39.  The  Grandfather.     By  Miss  I  ickering 50 

40.  Arnih  Neil.     By  James M 

41.  TheJilt 50 

42.  Tales  from  the  (Jerman 50 

43.  Arthur  Arundel.     BylL-tmith 50 

44.  Agincourt.     Hy  James 50 

45.  The  Hegcnt's  I  laughter 60 

•)6.  The  Maid  of  Honor 51 

47.  Safia.     By  Oe  lleauvoir 60 

4S.  Look  to  tiie  Ijid.     By  Mrs.  I  His 60 

49.  The  Improvisatore.     By  .\ndersen 60 

BO.  The  (lambler's  Wife.     By  .Mrs.  Grey 60 

61.  Veronica.     By  Zschokke 60 

63.  Zoe.     liv  Miss  Jewsbury 60 

63.  Wyoming 60 

54,   DcHohm.     By  Sue B'l 

65.  .Self     By  the  Author  of  "Cecil" 75 

68.  The  Smuggler.     By  James 75 

67.  The  Bnuch  of  Promi.se 60 

53.  Parsonage  of  Mora.     By  Miss  Hremer 25 

69.  A  t:hancc  Medley.     By  T.  C.  Grattaa 50 

60.  The  White  iSlave 1  (10 

CI.  The  Bosom  Friend.    By  Mrs.  Grey 60 

C3.  Aiiuiury.     By  Dumas 60 

6.'!.  The  Author's  Daughter.     By  Mary  llowitt ... .  26 

(54.  Only  a  Fiddler,  iVrc.     Hy  Andersen 60 

«>.  The  Whiteboy.     By  Mrs.  Hall 60 

60.  The  Foster- Hrother.     Kdited  by  Leigh  Hunt. ..  60 

07.  Love  and  Mesmerism.     By  II.  Smith 75 

63.  AiJCanio.     By  Dumas 76 

69.  Lady  of  Milan.     Kdited  by  Mrs.  Thomson 76 

70.  The  Citizen  of  Prague 1  Oo 

71 .  Till  Hoyal  Favorite.     By  Mrs.  f iore 6!» 

7'!.  The  Quee»*.  of  Denmark.     By  Mrs.  Gore 60 

7!i,  The  iClvcs,  &c.    By  Tieck BO 

74,  '5.-  Tho  Stepmother.     By  James 1  26 

70.  Jessie's  Flirtations 60 

77.  Chevalier  d'Uarmental.    By  Pumas 50 

78.  Peers  and  Parvenus.     Hy  Mrs.  (Jore 5  1 

79.  The  ( 'ommander  of  .Malta.     By  Sue 60 

80.  The  Female  Minister 60 

SI.  Kmllla  Wyndham.     By  Mrs  Marsh 75 

82.  The  Bush-ltanger.     By  CharlcB  Kowcroft 50 

8.1.  The  Chronicles  of  triovernook 26 

84.  (ienevieve.     By  Lamartino 26 

86.  Llvonian  Tales 26 

60.  LetUoe  Arnold.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 86 


I'HK  K 

87.  Father  Darcy.    By  Mrs.  Mar.sh $0  7,5 

hS.   I.eontine.     By  Mrs  Maberly 1.0 

89.  Heidelberg.     By  James 60 

90.  Lucretia.     By  Hulwer 76 

91.  Beauchamp.     By  Jumcs 75 

92.  94.  Fortescue.     By  Knowlcs 1  (0 

93.  Daniel  Uennison,  Ac.     By  Mrs.  HoHand 60 

96.  Cinq-Mars.     By  De  Vigny 60 

96.  Woman's  Trials.     By  Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall 75 

97.  The  (  astle  of  Fhrcnstciu.     By  James 60 

98.  War.iage.     By  Miss  S.  Ferrier 60 

99.  Holaud  (  ashel.     By  Lever 1  '.5 

100.  The  Martins  of  Cro' Martin.     By  Lever 1  26 

101.  Uuflsell.     By  James ,M) 

102.  A  "imple  Storj'.     By  Mrs.  Incbhnld 60 

103.  Norman's  Bridge.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 60 

lu4.  Alamance W) 

105.  Margaret  Graham.     By  James 26 

100.  The  Wayside  Cross.     By  F.  11.  Jlilman 26 

107.  The  Con-,  ict.     By  James 50 

108.  Midsummer  I'.ve.     By  .Mrs.  S.  C.  Hall 60 

109.  Jane  Kyre.     By  Currer  Bell 75 

110.  The  Last  of  the  Fairies.     By  James 26 

111.  Sir  Theodore  Broughton.     By  James 60 

112.  Self-Control.     By  Mary  Brunton 76 

113,114.  Harold.     By  Bulwer 1  00 

115.  Brothers  and  Sisters.     By  Miss  Bremer 60 

116.  Gowrie.     By  James 60 

117.  A  Whim  and  its  Con.scquences.     By  James...  DO 

118.  Three  Sisters  and  Three  Fortunes.    By  G.  II. 

Lewes 75 

119.  The  Discipline  of  Life ,'^Ki 

120.  Thirty  'i  ears  Since.     By  James 75 

"i21.  Mary  Barton.     By  Mrs.  (Jaskell 60 

122.  The  Great  lloggarty  Diamond.    By  Thackeray  2D 

123.  The  Forgery.     By  Jamej M 

1'24.  The  Midnight  Sun.     Bv  Miss  Bremer -.6 

1'.'6,  126.  The  Caxtons.     By  Bulwer 76 

127.  Mordaunt  Hall.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 50 

128.  My  L'ncle  the  Curate DO 

129.  The  Woodman.     ByJames 75 

130.  The  Green  Hand.     A  "  Short 'i  am" 76 

131.  Sidonia  the  Sorceress.     By  Meinhold 1  Oo 

132.  Shirley.     Hy  Currer  Bell 1  00 

133.  The  Ogilvits.     Hy  .Miss  Mulock 50 

134.  Constance  Lyndsay.    By  (i.e.  II DO 

136.  Sir  Kdward  (irabam.     By  Miss  Siu'  lair 1  (H» 

136.  Hands  not  Hearts.     By  Miss  Wilkinson DO 

137.  '1  he  Wilmlngtons.     By  Mrs.  Marsh Wl 

138.  Ned  Allen.     Hy  D.  Hannay .'.0 

139.  Night  and  Morning.    By  Bulwer 76 

140.  The  Maid  of  Orleans 75 

141.  Antonina.     Hy  Wilkie  CoUinB DO 

142.  Zancmi.     By  Hulwer 60 

143.  Heglnnld  Hastings.     By  Warburton DO 

144.  Pride  and  IiTesolution 60 

145.  The  ( )ld  Oak  I  best.     By  James 50 

146.  Julia  Howard.     By  Mrs  Martin  Hoi! 60 

147.  Adelaide  Lindsay.     Kdited  by  Mrs.  .Marsh 60 

148.  Petticoat  Government.     By  Mrs.  Trollope 50 

149.  TVe  Luttrells.     By  F.  Williams M 

150.  Singleton  Fontenoy,  I!.  N".     By  Hannay 50 

151.  Olive.     By  Miss  Mulock 60 

152.  Henry  Smeaton.     ByJames 00 

163.  Time,  the  Avenger.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 5ft 

164.  The  Commissioner.     By  James 1  IIO 

16,6.  The  Wife's  Sister.     By  Mrs.  Hubback 60 

l.'Ki.  The  Gold  Worshipers 60 

167.  The  Daughter  of  Night     By  Fullom 60 

153.  Stuart  of  Dunleath.     By  Hon.  Caroline  Norton  50 

159.  Arthur  Conway.     By  Captain  K.  H.  .Mllman. .  60 

160.  The  Kate.     By  James 6(1 

161.  The  Ijidy  and  the  I'riest.     By  Mrs.  Maberly. .  f>0 

102.  Alms  and  Obstacles.     By  James DO 

103.  The  Tutor's  Ward 60 

164.  Florence  Sackvillc.     By  Mrs.  Burbury 75 

165.  Ravenscliffc.     By  Mrs.  Marsh 60 

166.  Maurice  Tlertiay.     By  I,over 1  00 

167.  The  Head  of  tho  Family.    By  Miss  Mulock. . .  7» 
16^.  Darlen.     By  Warburton 60 

169.  Kalkcnburg 75 

170.  TheDaltons.     Bv  Lever. 160 

171.  Ivar;  or.  The  Skjuts-Hoy.     By  Miss  Cari.cii  . .  60 

172.  Pequinllio.     ByJames 60 

1T3.  Anna  Hammer.    By  Temme 60 


r^ 


Harper's  Library  of  Select  Novels. 


174. 
176. 
170, 
178. 
17i). 
ISO. 
181. 
182. 
1S3. 
184. 
185. 
lS(i. 
187. 
188. 
189. 
190. 
191. 
t9J. 
193. 
194. 
1U6. 
19a. 
197. 
198. 
199. 
200. 
201. 
202. 
203. 
204. 
206. 
20«. 
20T. 
208. 
209. 
210, 
212. 
213. 
214. 
215. 
210. 
217. 
21 S. 
219. 
220. 

221. 
222. 
223. 
224. 
225. 
2M. 
227. 
228. 
229. 
230. 
231. 
232. 
233. 
234. 
238. 
236. 
237. 
238. 
239. 
24^ 
241. 
942. 
243. 
244. 
245. 
24tf. 
S47. 

249. 
260. 
261. 
252. 
963. 
254. 
255. 
266. 
26T. 
963. 

259. 
260. 
261. 
262. 

9n3. 
264. 
205. 
906. 
267. 
268. 
209. 


ruicK 

A  Life  of  Vicisaitudes.     Ity  ,Ium«9 $()  60 

Henry  Kaniond.     Hy  Tlmckeriiy 75 

177.  My  Novel,     lly  llulwer 1  50 

Katie  .Stewart.     By  Mrs.  Olipbant 25 

(Jftstio  Avon.     Ky  .Mm.  Mareh 50 

Atjiiea  ^nl•el.     liy  Jumes 50 

Agatha's  lluabaud.      Hy  Miss  Mulock 60 

Villette.     By  Currer  Bell 78 

Lover's  Stratagem.     Hy  Miss  L'arleu 60 

Clouded  Happiness.     Hy  Countess  D'Orsay. . .  50 

Charles  Aucliesti  r.     A  .VIenioriul 75 

Lady  Lee's  Widowhood 50 

The  Dodd  Family  Abroad.     By  Lever 1  16 

.Sir  Jasper  (  arew.     Hy  Lever 76 

Quiet  Heart.     By  Mrs.  Olipbant 'US 

Aubrey.     By  .Mrs,  .Marsh 75 

Ticouderoga.     By  James 60 

Hard  Times.     By  Dickens 50 

The  Voung  Husband.     By  Mrs.  Grey 50 

The  Mother's  liecompenae.    By  Grace  Aguilar.  76 

Avillion,  and  other  Tales,     liy  Miss  Mulock. . .    1  'J6 

North  and  South.     By  .Mrs.  Gaskell 6i) 

Country  .S'eighborbood.     By  Miss  Dupuy 50 

Constance  Herbert.     By  Miss  Jewsbury 50 

The  Heiress  of  Haugliton.     By  Mrs.  Marsh. . .  60 

The  Old  Dominion.     By  James 50 

John  Halifax.     Hy  Miss  Mulock 75 

Lvelyn  Marston.     Hy  .Mrs.  .Marsh 50 

Fortunes  of  Glencore.     Hy  Lever 6) 

X^eonora  d'Orco.     By  .lames 50 

Nothing  Now.     By  .Miss  Mulock 50 

Tlie  Hose  of  Ashurst.     Hy  .Mrs.  Alarsh 50 

The  Atlielings.    By  Mrs.  Oliplmnt 76 

Scenes  of  Clerical  Life.     By  George  Kliot 75 


My  I^dy  Ludlow.     By  Mrs.  Gaskell iXi 

211.  Gerald  Kitzgerabl.     By  Lever 60 

A  Life  for  a  Life.     By  Miss  Mulock ■  50 

Sword  and  Gown.     By  Geo.  Lawrence 25 

Misrepreseutation.     Hy  Anna  II.  Drury 1  O.i 

The  Mill  on  the  l•■los.^.     Hy  George  Eliot 75 

One  of  Them.     By  Lever 75 

ADay'sKide.     Hy  Lever 5ft 

Notice  to  yuit.     Hy  Wills 61 

A  Strange  Story.     Hy  Bulwer 1  00 

The  Struggles  of  Brown,  Jones,  and  Robinson. 

By  TroUope 60 

Abel  Drake's  Wife.     By  John  .Saunders 76 

Olive  Blake's  Good  Work.     By  Jeaffreson 75 

Tlie  I'rofessor's  Lady 25 

Mistress  and  Maid.     By  Miss  Mulock 50 

Aurora  I'loyd.     By  M.  10.  Hraddon 75 

Barringtuu.     By  Lever. . . ; 75  I 

Sylvia's  Lovers.     Hy  .Mrs.  Gaskell 75; 

A  First  Friendship '.-: 50 

A  Dark  Night's  Work.    By  Mrs.  Gaskell 50  I 

Mrs.  Lirriper's  Lodgings. 'J5 

St.  Olaves \ 76 

A  I'oint  of  Honor 60 

Live  it  Down.     By  Jeaffreson 1  00 

Martin  Hole.     By  Saunders ,'>0 

.Mary  Lyndsay.     By  Lady  Kraily  I'onsonby...  50 

Eleanor's  Victory.     Hy  M.  E.  liraddon 75 

Kaclicl  liay.     Hy  Trollope 50 

John  .Marchmont'a  Li'gacy.    By  M.  E.  BradJoii.  T6 

Annis  Wnrleigh's  Fortunes.     By  Holme  Lee. .  75 

The  Wife's  Evidence.     By  Wills 50 

Barbara's  History.     By  Amelia  B.  Edwards. . .  75 

Cousin  I'hillis.     By  Mrs.  Gai<kell '.i5 

What  will  he  do  witli  It  ?    By  Bulwer 1  50 

The  Ladder  of  Life.     By  Amelia  B.  Edwards. .  60 

Denis  Duval.     By  Thackeray 80 

Maurice  Dering.     By  Gi.'o.  Lawrence BO 

Margaret  Denzil's  History 76 

Quite  Alone.    By  George  .\uguBtU3  Sala 78 

Mattie :  a  Stray 76 

My  Brother's  Wife.    By  Amelia  B.  Edwards. .  60 

Uncle  Silas.    By  J.  S.  Irfi  Fanu 76 

I./>vel  'he  Widower.     By  Thiickeray 28 

Miss  Mackenzie.     By  Anthony  TroUope 60 

On  Guard.     By  Annie  Thomas 60 

Theo  T..eigh.     By  Annie  Thomas 60 

Denis  Donne.    By  Annie  Thomas 60 


270.  Gilbert  Rugse.    By  the  Author  of  "  A  First 

Friendship" $1  00 

271.  Sans  Merci.     By  Geo.  Lawrence 60 

'272.  Phuniic  Keller.     Hy  Mrs.  J.  II.  Klddell 6' 

273.  Land  at  Last.     Hy  Edmund  Yates 60 

274.  Felix  Holt,  the  Radical.     By  Geoig,!  Eliot 70 

'276.  Bound  to  the  Will  el.     By  John  Buuuders 75 

276.  All  in  the  Dark.     By  J.  S.  Le  Fu.'>ii 60 

277.  Kissing  the  Rod.     By  Edmund  Yates 78 

278.  The  Race  for  Wealth.     By  Miu  J.  H.  Riddell. .  75 

279.  Lizzie  Lortou  of  Greyrigg.     Hy  Mrs.  V..  Lynn 

Linton 76 

280.  The  Beauclercs,  lather  and  Son.     By  Clarke.  50 

281.  Sir  Brooke  Fossbrooke.     By  Charles  Lever  ...  60 

282.  Madonna  Mary.     By  Mrs.  Oliphimt 6ii 

2S;'..  Cra<lock  Nowell.     By  R.  D.  Blackmore 75 

284.  Beruthal.     From  the  German  of  L.  Miihlbttch.  60 

286.  Rachel's  Secret 76 

28U.  The  Claverings.     By  Anthony  Trollope 60 

2s7.  The  Village  on  the  Cliff.     By  Miss  Thackeray.  26 

288.  Played  Out.     By  Annie  Thomas 75 

289.  Black  Sheep.     By  Edmund  Yates 60 

290.  Sowing  the  Wind.     By  Mrs.  E.  Lynii  Linton..  50 

291.  Nora  and  Archibald  Lee 60 

292.  Raymond's  Heioine 60 

293.  Mr.  Wynyard's  Ward.     By  Holme  Lee 50 

294.  Alec  Forbes  of  Howglen.    By  Mac  Donald 76 

295.  No  Man's  Friend.     By  F.  W.  Robinson 75 

296.  Called  to  Account.      By  Annie  Thomas 50 

297.  Caste 50 

298.  The  Curate's  Discipline.     By  Mrs.  Eiloart 60 

299.  Circe.     By  Babington  Wliite 50 

300.  The  Tenants  of  Malory.     Hy  J.  S.  Le  Fanu 50 

30L  Carlyon's  Year.     By  the  Author  of  "Lost  Sir 

MuBsingberd,"  &c 26 

302.  The  Waterdiile  Neighbors.     By  the  Author  of 

"Paul  Mnssie" 60 

303.  Mabel's  Progn  ss.     Hy  the  Author  of  "Che  Sto- 

ry of  Aunt  Margaret's  Trouble" 50 

.'i04.  fJuild  Court.     Hy  (leoige  Mac  Donald 50 

305.  The  Hrothcrs' Bet.     By  Kniilie  Mysar.' C:ub  n  25 

3  6.  Playing  for  High  Stakes.     By  Annie  Tliomafl. .  50 

307.  Margaret's  I'jigagiment 50 

308.  One  of  the  I'aniily.     By  the  Author  of  "  Car- 

lyon's Year" 25 

309.  Five  Hundred  Pounds  R(wiird.     liy  a  Biirriatvr  50 

310.  Brownlows.     By  Mrs.  Olipbant 37 

311.  Charlotte's  Inheritance.     Hy  M.  E.  Braddon  . .  60 

312.  Jeannie's  Quiet  Life.     By  the  Author  of  "St. 

Olaves,"  &c 60 

31.3.  Poor  Humanity.     By  V.  W.  I'Lobinson 50 

314.  Brakespeaie.     By  G  o.  Lawrence 60 

315.  A  Lost  Name.     Bv  .L  Sheridan  !.«  Fanu 50 


316.  Love  or  Marring.'/'    liy  William  Black 50 


32L 
322. 


327. 
82s. 

329. 
830. 
331. 


By  the  Author  of  "  Mat- 


60 


Belial 

Carry's  Confession, 

tie  :  a  Stray" 

Miss  C'arew.     By  Amelia  H.  i:dwardB 

Hand  and  Glove.     By  Amelia  B.  Edwards 

(i  uy  Deverell.     By  J.  8.  Le  Fanu 

Half  a  Million  of  Money.    By  Amelia  B.  Ed 

wards 

The  Belton  Instate.    By  Anthony  Trollope 

Agnes.    By  Mrs.  Olipbant 76 

Walter  Goring.     By  Annie  Thomas 76 

Maxwell  Drewitt.     By  Mrs.  J.  H.  Riddell 75 

The  Tollers  of  the  Sea.     By  Victor  Hugo 75 

Miss  Maijoribanks.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 50 

TlM  True  History  of  a  Little  Ragamuffin 50 


75 
60 
50 
60 

76 
60 


317.  Dead-Sea  Fruit.     By  M.  E.  Braddon 50 

318.  The  Dower  Houre.     By  Annie  Thomas 50 

319.  1'he  Bramleighs  of  liishop's  Folly.     By  I.ever.  50 
i!20.  Mildred.     By  Georgiana  M.  Craik 60 

Nature's  Nobleman.     By  the  Author  of  "  Ua- 

chel's  Secret" 60 

Kathleen.  By  the  Author  of  "  Raymond's  He- 
roine"   60 

323,  That  Boy  of  Norcott's.    By  (Jharlea  Lever. 26 

324.  1  n  Silk  Attire.     Hy  W.  Black .M) 

326.  Hetty.     By  Henry  Kingsley 25 

820.  F'ai.^e  Colors.    By  Annie  Thomas 60 

Meta's  Faith.  Hy  the  Author  of  "St.  Olnv. 'k."  50 
Found   Dead.      By  the  Author  of  "Carlyoi.'s 

Y'ear" 60 

Wri  eked  In  Port.     By  Edmund  Yutes 50 

The  .Minister's  Wife.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 76 

A  Beggar  on  Horseback.      By  the  Author  of 

"Carlyon's  Year" 60 

332.  Kitty.     By  the  Auth(.r  of  "Doctor  Jacob"  ....  50 

333.  Only  Herself.     By  Annie  Thomas 60 

334.  HIrell.     By  John  Saunders 60 

1  335.  I'nder  Foot.     By  Alton  Clyde 80 

336.  So  Runs  the  World  Away.    By  Mrs.  A.  C.  Steele.  50 

\  337.  Baffled.     By  Julia  GodHard 70 

,  338.  Beneath  the  Wheels.    By  the  Author  of  "  Olive 

Varcoo" ■ 80 

889.  Stern  Necessity.     By  F.  W.  Robinson 50 

340.  Gwendoline's  Harvest.    By  the  Authorof  "Car- 

!  Ivon'sYear"    25 

341.  Kilmeny.    By  W.  Black So 

342    John :  a  f^ove  Story.     By  Mrs.  Oliphant 60 

343.  True  to  Hei'self.     By  F.  W.  Robinson 60 

i  344.  Vi  ronica.    By  the  Author  of  "  Aunt  Margaret's 

i  Trouble" 80 

846.  A  Dangerous  Guest.    By  the  Author  of  "Gil- 

!  bort  Rugge" SO 

346.  Estelle  Russell 75 

347.  The  Heir  Expectant.    Hy  the  Autlior  of  '  Ray- 

mond's Heroine" 60 

JiS.   W'blcn  IS  the  lltroine?.      &o 

H4U.  The  Vivian  Romame.     By  Mortimer  Collins. .  51 

350.  lu  Duty  Bound.     HlUhtaied. bU 


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1871. 


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THB«B  A&M  Ht   nZAKSm  «!»fcB«W». "^SJME  pag«   ir4<8.} 


THE 


CRYPTOGRAM. 


51  Koocl. 


Bv  JAMES  DE  MILLE, 


AUTHOR   OF 


■THE  DODGE  CLUB."   "CORD  AND  CREESE."   '-THE  AMERICAN 


BARON,"  &c. 


WITH  ILLUSTRATIONS. 


NEW    YORK: 
HARPER    &     BROTHERS,    PUBLISHERS, 

FRANK  MN     SQUARE. 

■  ;;  1871. 


Entered,  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  mo  year  1870,  by 
HARPER  &  BROTHERS, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the  Southern 

District  of  New  York. 


:^^.', 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


TWO     OLD     FRIENDS. 

Chktwynde  Castle  was  a  large  baronial 
mansion,  belonging  to  the  I'lantagenet  jjeriod, 
and  situated  in  Monmouthshire.  It  wa.s  a  grand 
old  place,  with  dark  towers,  and  turrets,  and 
gloomy  walls  surmounted  with  battlements,  half 
of  which  had  long  since  tumbled  down,  while 
the  other  half  seemed  tottering  to  ruin.  That 
menacing  ruin  was  on  one  side  of  the  structure 
concealed  beneath  a  growth  of  ivy,  which  con- 
trasted the  dark  green  of  its  leaves  with  the 
sombre  hue  of  the  ancient  stones.  Tii"  "'th 
its   defacing   fingers   had   only  lent  a(  ,ial 

grandeur  to  this  venerable  pile.  As  it  rose 
there — "  standing  with  half  its  battlements  alone, 
and  with  five  hundred  years  of  ivy  grown" — its 
picturesque  magnificence  and  its  air  of  hoar  an- 
tiquity made  it  one  of  the  noblest  monuments  of 
the  past  which  England  could  show. 

All  its  surroundings  were  in  keeping  with  the 
central  object.  Here  were  no  neat  ])aths,  no 
well-kept  avenues,  no  trim  lawns.     On  the  con- 


trary, every  thing  bore  the  unmistakable  marks 
of  neglect  and  decay ;  the  walks  were  overgrown, 
the  terraces  dilapidated,  and  the  rose  pleasuunce 
had  degenerated  into  a  tangled  mass  of  bushes 
and  briers.  It  seemed  as  though  the  whole  do- 
main were  about  to  revert  into  its  original  state 
of  nature ;  and  every  thing  spoke  cither  of  the, 
absence  of  a  muster,  or  else  of  something  more 
important  still — the  absence  of  money. 

The  castle  stood  on  slightly  elevated  ground  ; 
and  from  its  gray  stone  ivy -covered  portal  so 
magnificent  was  the  view  that  the  most  careless 
observer  would  be  attracted  by  it,  and  stand 
wonder-struck  at  tlie  beauty  of  the  scene,  till  In; 
forgot  in  the  glories  of  nature  the  deficiencies  of 
art.  Uelow,  and  not  far  away,  flowed  the  sil- 
very Wye,  most  charming  of  English  streams, 
winding  tortuously  through  fertile  meiulows  and 
wooded  copses;  farther  off  lay  fruitful  vales  -md 
rolling  hills ;  while  in  the  distance  the  })rospeci 
was  bounded  by  the  giant  forms  of  the  Welsh 
mountains. 

At  the  moment  when  this  story  opens  these 
beauties  were  but  faintly  visible  through  the 
fast-fading  twilight  of  a  summer  evening ;  the 
shadow?;  were  rapidly  deepening ;  and  the  only 
signs  of  life  about  the  place  appeared  where  from 
some  of  the  windows  at  the  eastern  end  f'aiiii 
rays  of  light  stole  out  into  the  'loom. 

The  interior  of  the  castle  corresponded  with 
the  exterior  in  magnificence  and  in  ruin — in  its 
picturesque  cor  ..ingling  of  splendor  and  d-jcay. 
The  hall  was  hung  with  arms  and  armor  of  jinst 
generations,  and  ornamented  with  stags'  heads, 
antlers,  and  other  trophies  of  the  chase ;  but 
rust,  and  mould,  and  dust  covered  them  all. 
Throughout  the  house  a  large  number  of  rooms 
were  empty,  and  the  whole  westeni  end  was  un- 
furnished. In  the  furnished  rooms  at  the  east- 
ern end  every  thing  belonged  to  a  past  genera- 
tion, and  all  the  massive  and  anti(|uated  furni- 
ture bore  ])ainful  marks  of  poverty  and  neglect. 
Time  was  every  where  assertinj^  his  i)o\ver,  and 
nowhere  was  any  resistance  made  to  his  ravages. 

Some  comfort,  however,  was  still  to  be  found 
in  the  old  place.  There  were  rooms  which  wore 
as  yet  free  from  the  general  touch  of  desolation. 
Among  these  was  the  dining-room,  where  at  this 
time  the  heavy  cuitains  were  drawn,  the  lamps 
shone  out  cheerily,  and,  early  June  though  it 
was,  a  bright  wood-fire  blazed  on  the  ample 
hearth,  lighting  up  with  a  ruddy  glow  the  heavy 
panclings  and  the  time-worn  tajiestries. 

Dinner  was  just  over,  the  dessert  was  on  the 
table,  and  two  gentlemen  were  sitting  over  their 
wine — though  tliis  is  to  be  taken  rather  in  a  fig- 
urative sense,  for  their  conversation  was  so  en- 


wmmsmmmmtm 


8 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


grossing  ns  to  mitke  them  oblivions  of  even  the 
charms  of  the  old  ancestral  port  of  rare  vintage 
which  Lord  Chetwynde  had  produced  to  do  hon- 
or to  his  gnest.  Nor  is  this  to  he  wondered  at. 
Friends  of  boyhood  and  early  manhood,  sharers 
long  ago  in  each  other's  hopes  and  aspirations, 
they  had  parted  last  when  youth  and  ambition 
were  both  at  their  height.  Now,  after  the  la])se 
of  years,  wayworn  and  weary  from  the  strife, 
they  had  met  again  to  recount  how  those  hopes 
had  been  fidtilled. 

The  two  men  were  of  distinguished  appear- 
ance. Lord  Chetwynde  was  of  about  the  me- 
dium size,  with  slight  figure,  and  pale,  aristo- 
cratic face.  His  hair  was  silver-white,  his  feat- 
ures were  delicately  chiseled,  but  wore  habitually 
a  sad  and  anxious  e.\i)ression.  His  whole  phy- 
sique betokened  a  nature  of  extreme  refinement 
and  sensibility,  rather  than  force  or  strengtli  of 
char  r.  His  companion,  General  I'omeroy, 
was  a  in  of  ditJ'erent  stamp.  He  was  tall,  with 
a  liigii  receding  brow,  hair  longer  than  is  common 
with  soldiers ;  thin  lips,  which  spoke  of  resolu- 
tion, around  which,  however,  there  always  dwelt 
as  he  spoke  a  smile  of  inex])ressible  sweetness. 
He  had  a  long  nose,  and  large  eyes  that  lighted 
up  with  every  varying  feeling.  There  was  in  his 
face  both  resoluiion  and  kindliness,  each  in  ex- 
treme, as  though  ho  could  remorselessly  take 
vengeance  on  an  enemy  or  lay  down  his  life  for 
tt  friend. 

As  long^s  the  servrnts  v.ere  present  the  con- 
versation, animated  though  it  was,  referred  to 
topics  of  a  general  character;  but  as  soon  as 
they  had  loft  the  room  the  two  friends  began  to 
refer  more  confidentially  to  the  past. 

"  You  have  lived  so  very  secluded  a  life,"  said 
General  Pomeroy,  "that  it  is  only  at  rare  inter- 
vals that  I  have  heard  any  thing  of  you,  and  that 
was  liardly  more  than  the  fact  that  you  were 
alive.  You  were  always  rather  reserved  and  se- 
cluded, you  know ;  you  hated,  like  Horace,  the 
profanum  vulf/im,  and  held  yourself  aloof  from 
them,  and  so  I  sti])pose  you  would  not  go  into 
political  life.  Well,  I  don't  know  but  that,  after 
all,  you  were  right." 

"  My  dear  I'omeroy,"  said  Lord  Chetwynde, 
leaning  back  in  his  chair,  "my  circumstance-' 
have  been  such  that  entrance  into  political  life 
has  scarcely  ever  ile|)ended  on  my  own  choice. 
My  position  has  been  so  peculiar  that  it  has  hardly 
ever  been  possible  for  me  to  obtain  advancement 
in  the  common  ways,  even  if  I  had  desired  it. 
I  dare  say,  if  T  had  been  inordinately  ambitious, 
I  might  have  done  something ;  but,  as  it  was,  I 
have  done  nothing.  You  see  me  Just  about  where 
I  was  when  we  i)arted,  1  don't  know  how  many 
years  ago.' 

"AVeil,  at  any  rate,"  said  the  General,  "you  ; 
have  been  spared  the  trouble  of  a  career  of  am- 1 
bition.  You  have  lived  here  (piietly  on  your  own  ^ 
place,  and  I  dare  say  you  have  had  far  more 
real  happiness  than  you  would  otherwise  have ! 
had."  I 

"  Hap]iinessl"  repeated  Lcn-d  Clietw\-nde,  in 
a  mournful  tone.  He  leaned  his  head  on  his 
hand  for  a  few  moments,  and  said  nothing.  At 
last  he  looked  up  and  said,  with  a  bitter  smile : 
"The  story  of  my  life  is  soon  told.  Two  words 
will  embody,  it  all  —  disappointment  and  fail- 
ure." 

General  Pomeroy  regarded  his  friend  earnestly 


for  a  few  moments,  and  then  looked  away  with- 
out speaking. 

"  My  troubles  began  from  the  very  first,"  con- 
tinued Lord  CJhetwyiide,  in  a  musing  tone,  which 
seemed  more  like  a  soliloquy  than  any  thing  el.se. 
"There  ./as  the  estate,  saddled  with  debt  hand- 
ed down  from  my  grandfather  to  my  father.  It 
woidd  have  re([uired  years  of  economy  and  good 
management  to  free  it  from  encumbrance.  But 
my  father's  motto  was  always  Dum  vivimus  viim- 
Mus,  and  his  only  idea  was  to  get  what  money 
he  could  for  himself,  and  let  liis  heirs  look  out 
for  themselves.  In  consequence,  heavier  mort- 
gages were  added.  He  lived  in  Paris,  enjoying 
liiinself,  and  left  (Chetwynde  in  charge  of  a  fac- 
tor, whose  chief  idea  was  to  feather  his  own  nest. 
So  he  let  every  thing  go  to  decay,  and  oppressed 
the  tenants  in  order  to  collect  money  for  my  fa- 
ther, and  prevent  his  coming  home  to  see  the 
ruin  that  was  going  on.  You  may  not  have 
known  this  before.  I  did  not  until  after  our 
separation,  when  it  all  came  upon  me  at  once. 
My  father  wanted  me  to  join  him  in  breaking 
the  entail.  Overwhelmed  by  such  a  calamity, 
and  indignant  with  him,  I  refused  to  comply 
with  his  wishes.  We  (luarreled.  He  went  back 
to  Paris,  and  I  never  saw  him  again. 

"After  his  death  my  only  idea  was  to  clear 
away  the  debt,  improve  the  condition  of  the 
tenants,  and  restore  Chetwynde  to  its  former 
condition.  How  that  hope  has  been  realized 
you  have  only  to  look  around  you  and  see.  But 
at  that  time  my  hope  was  strong.  I  went  up  to 
London,  where  my  name  and  the  intiuence  of 
my  friends  enabled  me  to  enter  into  public  life.- 
You  were  somewhere  in  England  then,  and  I 
often  used  to  wonder  why  I  never  saw  you. 
You  must  have  been  in  London.  I  once  saw 
your  name  in  an  army  list  among  the  oflicers 
of  a  regiment  stationed  there.  At  any  rate  I 
worked  hard,  and  at  first  all  my  ])rospccts  were 
bright,  and  1  felt  confident  in  my  future. 

"Well,  about  that  time  I  got  married,  trust- 
ing to  my  prospects.  She  was  of  as  good  a  fam- 
ily as  mine,  but  had  no  money." 

Lord  Chetwynde's  tone  as  he  spoke  about  his 
marriage  had  suddenly  changed.  It  seemed  as 
though  he  spoke  with  an  etibrt.  He  stojjped  for 
a  time,  and  slowly  drank  a  glass  of  wine. 

"She  married  me,"  he  continued,  in  air  icy 
tone,  "  for  my  prospects.  Sometimes  you  know 
it  is  very  safe  to  marry  on  prosjieets.  A  rising 
young  statesman  is  often  a  far  better  match  than 
a  dissipated  man  of  fortune.  Some  mothers  know 
this;  my  wife's  mother  thought  me  a  good  match, 
and  my  wife  thought  so  too.  I  '.oved  her  very 
dearly,'  or  I  woidd  not  have  married — though 
I  doMt  know,  either:  people  often  marry  in  a 
whim." 

General  Pomeroy  had  thus  far  been  gazing 
fixedly  at  the  ojiposite  wall,  but  now  he  looked 
earnestly  at  his  friend,  whose  eyes  were  down- 
cast while  he  spoke,  and  showed  a  deeper  atten- 
tion. 

".My  offlce,"  said  Lord  Chetwynde,  "was  a 
lucrati\e  one,  so  that  I  was  able  to  sin-round  my 
bride  with  every  comfort ;  and  the  bright  pros- 
pects which  lay  before  me  made  mo  certain 
about  my  future.  After  a  time,  however,  dif- 
ficulties arose.  You  are  aware  that  the  chief 
point  in  my  religion  is  Honor.  It  is  my  nature, 
and  was  taught  me  by  my  mother.     Our  family 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


9 


r 

[ii 
111 


motto  is,  Nohleitse  oblige,  and  the  full  meaning 
of  this  great  maxim  my  mother  had  instilled 
into  every  fibre  of  my  being.  But  on  going 
into  the  world  1  found  it  ridiculed  among  my 
own  chiss  as  obsolete  and  exploded.  livery 
where  it  seemed  to  have  given  way  to  the  mean 
doctrine  of  expediency.  My  sentiments  were 
gayly  ridiculed,  and  I  soon  began  to  fear  that 
I  was  not  suited  lor  political  life. 

"  At  length  a  crisis  arrived.  I  had  cither  to 
sacrifice  my  conscience  or  resign  my  position. 
I  chose  the' latter  alternative,  and  in  doing  so  I 
gave  up  my  political  life  forever.  I  need  not 
tell  the  bitterness  of  my  disappointment.  But 
the  loss  of  worldly  prospects  and  of  hope  was 
as  nothing  compared  with  other  things.  The 
worst  of  all  was  the  reception  which  1  met  at 
home.  My  young,  and  as  I  sup])0sed  loving 
wife,  to  whom  I  went  at  once  with  my  story, 
and  from  whom  I  exjiected  the  warmest  sym- 
pathy, greeteil  me  with  nothing  but  tears  and 
reproaches.  She  could  only  look  upon  my  act 
with  the  world's  eyes.  She  called  it  ridiculous 
(Quixotism.  She  charged  me  with  want  of  att'ec- 
tioii ;  denounced  me  for  beguiling  her  to  marry  a 
pauper ;  and  after  a  painful  interview  we  parted 
in  coldness." 

Lord  Ciietwynde,  whose  agitation  was  now 
evident,  here  paused  and  drank  another  glass 
of  wine.     After  some  time  he  went  on  : 

"After  all,  it  was  not  so  bad.  I  soon  found 
employment.  1  had  made  many  powerful  friends, 
who,  though  they  laughed  at  my  scruples,  still 
seem'id  tv.  rssjiect  my  consistency,  and  had  con- 
fidLMice  in  my  ability.  Through  them  I  obtained 
a  new  appointment  whore  I  could  be  more  inde- 
pendent, though  tlie  prospects  were  poor.  Here 
1  might  have  been  happy,  had  it  not  been  for  the 
continued  alienation  between  my  wife  and  me. 
She  had  been  ambitious.  She  i.  id  relied  on  my 
fatiire.  She  was  now  angry  because  I  had  thrown 
that  future  awi>v.  It  was  a  death-blow  to  her 
hopes,  and  she  coidd  not  forgive  me.  We  lived 
in  the  same  house,  but  I  '.new  nothing  of  her 
occupations  and  amusements.  She  went  much 
into  society,  where  she  was  greatly  admired, 
and  seemed  to  be  neglectfid  of  her  home  and 
of  her  child.  I  bore  my  misery  as  best  I  could 
in  silence,  and  never  so  mucii  as  dreamed  of  tiie 
tremendous  catastrophe  in  which  it  was  about  to 
terminate." 

Lord  C;hetwynde  paused,  and  seemed  over- 
come by  his  recollections. 

■'  You  have  heard  of  it,  I  siippose  ?"  he  asked 
at  length,  in  a  scarce  audible  voice. 

The  General  looked  at  him,  and  for  a  moment 
their  eyes  met ;  then  he  looked  away.  Then  he 
shaded  his  eyes  with  his  hand  and  sat  as  though 
awaiting  ftu'thjr  revelations. 

l^ord  (;hetwynde  did  not  seem  to  notice  him 
at  all.     Intent  upon  his  own  thoughts,  he  went  I 
on  in  that  strange  soliloquizing  tone  with  which  i 
he  had  begun. 

■'She  tied — "  he  said,  in  a  voice  which  was 
little  more  than  a  whisper. 

■'Heavens!"  said  General  I'omeroy. 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"  It  was  about  three  years  after  our  mar- 
riage, "  continued  Lord  Chetwynde,  with  Un  ef- 
fort. "  She  fled.  She  left  no  word  of  farewell, 
she  fled.  She  forsook  me.  She  forsook  her 
<'hild.     My  God  !     Why  ?" 


He  was  silent  again. 

"  Who  was  the  man?"  asked  the  General,  in 
a  strange  voice,  and  with  an  effort. 

"He  was  known  as  Kedtield  Lyttoim.  He 
had  been  devoted  for  a  long  time  to  my  wretched 
wife.  Their  flight  was  so  secret  and  so  skill- 
fidly  managed  th"t  I  could  gain  no  clew  what- 
ever to  it — and,  indeed,  it  was  better  so — per- 
ha])s — yes — better  so."  Lord  Chetwynde  drew 
a  long  breath.  "Yes,  bette.-  so,"  he  continued 
— "for  if  I  had  been  able  to  track  the  scoun- 
drel and  take  his  life,  my  vngeance  would  have 
been  gained,  but  my  dishonor  would  have  been 
proi^'laimed.  To  me  that  dishonor  would  ha\e 
i/rought  no  additional  pang.  I  had  suffered  all 
that  I  could.  More  were  impossible ;  but  as  it 
was  my  .shame  was  not  made  public — and  so, 
above  all — above  all — my  boy  was  saved.  The 
frightful  scandal  did  not  arise  to  crush  my  dar- 
!  ling  boy." 

I  The  agitation  of  Lord  Chetwynde  overpowered 
him.  His  face  grew  more  pallid,  his  eyes  were 
fixed,  and  his  clenched  hands  testified  to  the 
j  struggle  that  raged  within  him.  A  long  silence 
followed,  during  which  neither  spoke  a  word. 
j  At  length  Lord  Chetwynde  went  on.  "  1  left 
London  forever,"  said  he,  with  a  deep  sigh. 
"After  that  my  one  desire  was  to  hL\<:  myself 
from  the  world.  1  wished  that  if  it  were  possi- 
ble my  very  name  might  be  forgotten.  And  so 
I  came  back  to  Chetwynde,  where  I  have  lived 
ever  since,  in  the  utmost  seclusion,  devoting  my- 
;;jif  entirely  to  the  education  and  training  of  my 
boy. 

"Ah,  my  old  friend,  that  boy  has  proved  the 
one  solace  of  my  life.  Well  has  he  repaid  me 
for  my  care.  Never  was  there  a  nobler  or  a 
more  devoted  nature  than  his.  Forgive  a  father's 
emotion,  my  friend.  If  you  but  knew  my  noble, 
my  brave,  my  chivalrous  boy,  you  would  excuse 
me.  That  boy  would  lay  down  his  life  for  me. 
In  all  his  life  his  one  thought  has  been  to  spare 
me  all  trouble  and  to  brighten  my  dark  life.  Poor 
Guy  !  He  knows  nothing  of  the  horror  of  shame 
that  hangs  over  him — he  has  found  out  nothing 
as  yet.  To  him  Ifis  mother  is  a  holy  thought — 
the  thought  of  one  who  died  long  ago,  whose 
memory  he  thinks  so  sacred  to  me  that  I  dare 
not  sjteak  of  her.     I'oorGuyl     I'oorGuy!" 

Lord  Chetwynde  again  paused,  overcome  by 
deep  emotion. 

"()od  only  knows,"  he  resumed,  "how  I  feel 
for  him  and  for  'i.is  future.  It's  a  dark  future 
for  him,  my  fiicnd.  For  in  addition  to  this 
grief  which  I  have  told  you  of  there  is  another 
which  weighs  me  down.  Chetwynde  is  not  yet 
redeemed.  I  lost  my  life  and  my  chance  to 
save  the  estate.  Chetwynde  is  overwhelmed 
witli  debt.  The  time  is  daily  drawing  near 
when  I  will  have  to  give  up  the  iidieritanco 
which  has  come  down  through  so  long  a  line  of 
ancestors.  All  is  lost.  Hope  itself  has  depart- 
ed. How  can  I  bear  to  see  the  place  pass  into 
alien  hands?" 

"  Fass  into  alien  hands  ?"  intornipted  the  Gen- 
eral, in  surprise.  "  Give  up  Chetwynde?  Im- 
possible!    It  can  not  be  tluuight  of." 

"Sad  as  it  is,"  replied  Lord  Chetwynde, 
moiirnfnlly,  "  it  must  be  so.  Sixty  thousand 
pounds  are  due  within  two  years.  Unless  I  can 
rai-e  that  amoimt  all  must  go.  Wheti  (iiiy 
Comes  of  age  he  must  break  the  entail  and  sell 


;'  i 

'i 

i! 


10 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


I 


the  estate.  It  is  just  beginning  to  pay  again, 
too,"  he  added,  regretfully.  "When  I  ciune 
into  it  it  was  utterly  impoverished,  and  every 
availaole  stick  of  timber  had  been  cut  down  ; 
but  my  expenses  have  t)een  very  small,  and  if  I 
have  fulfilled  no  other  liojie  of  my  life,  I  have  at 
least  done  something  for  my  ground-down  ten- 
antry ;  for  every  penny  wliich  1  have  saved,  after 
,aying  the  interest,  1  have  spent  on  improving 
their  homes  and  farms,  so  that  the  place  is  now 
in  very  good  condition,  though  I  have  been 
obliged  to  leave  the  pleasure-grounds  utterly 
neglected. " 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  with  your  soi  ?" 
asked  the  General. 

"  I  have  just  got  him  a  commission  in  the 
army,"  said  Lord  ("hetwynde.  "Some  old 
friends,  who  had  actually  remembered  me  all 
these  years,  offered  to  do  something  for  me  in 
the  diplomacy  line ;  but  if  he  entered  that  life  I 
should  feel  that  all  the  world  was  pointing  the 
finger  of  scorn  at  him  for  his  mother's  sake ;  be- 
sides, my  boy  is  too  honest  for  a  diplomat.  No 
— he  must  go  and  make  his  own  fortune.  A 
viscoimt  with  neither  money,  land,  nor  position 
— the  only  place  for  him  is  the  army." 

A  long  silence  followed.  Lord  Chetwynde 
seemed  to  lose  himself  among  those  painful  rec- 
ollections which  he  had  raised,  while  the  Gen- 
eral, falling  into  a  profound  abstraction,  sat  with 
bis  head  on  one  hand,  while  the  other  drummed 
mechanically  on  the  table.  As  much  as  half  an 
hour  passed  away  in  this  manner.  The  General 
was  fir.st  to  rouse  himself 

"  1  arrived  in  England  only  a  few  months  ago," 
lie  began,  in  a  quiet,  thoughtful  tone.  "  My  life 
has  been  one  of  strange  vicissitudes.  My  own 
country  is  almost  like  a  foreign  land  to  me.  As 
soon  as  I  could  get  Pomeroy  Court  in  order  I  de- 
termined to  visit  you.  This  visit  was  partly  for 
the  sake  of  seeing  you,  and  partly  for  the  sake 
of  asking  a  great  favor.  What  you  have  just 
been  saying  has  suggested  a  new  idea,  which  I 
think  may  be  carried  out  for  the  benefit  of  both 
of  us.  You  must  know,  in  the  fiist  ])lace,  1  have 
brought  my  little  daughter  home  with  me.  In 
fact,  it  was  for  her  sake  that  I  came  home — " 

"You  were  married,  then?" 

"Yes,  in  India.  You  lost  sight  of  me  early 
in  life,  and  so  perhaps  you  do  not  know  that  I 
exchanged  from  the  Queen's  service  to  that  of 
the  East  India  Company.  This  steji  I  never  re- 
gretted. My  promotion  was  rapid,  and  after  a 
year  or  two  I  obtained  a  civil  appointment. 
From  this  I  rose  to  a  higlier  office;  and  after 
ten  or  twelve  years  the  Company  recommended 
me  as  Governor  in  one  of  the  provinces  of  the 
Bengal  Presidency.  It  was  here  that  I  found 
my  sweet  wife. 

"  It  is  a  strange  story,"  said  the  General,  with 
a  long  sigh.  "She  came  suddenly  upon  me, 
and  changed  all  my  life.  Thus  far  I  had  so  de- 
voted myself  to  business  that  no  idea  of  love  or 
sentiment  ever  entered  my  head,  except  when  I 
was  a  boy.  I  had  reached  the  age  of  forty-five 
without  having  hardly  ever  met  with  any  woman 
who  had  touched  my  heart,  or  even  my  head,  for 
that  matter. 

"  My  first  sight  of  her  was  most  sudden  and 
most  strange,"  continued  the  General,  in  the 
tone  of  one  who  loved  to  linger  upon  even  the 
smallest  details  of  the  story  which  he  was  telling 


— "  strange  and  sudden.  I  had  been  busy  all  day 
in  the  audience  chamber,  and  when  at  length  the 
cases  were  all  disposed  of,  I  retired  thoroughly  ex- 
hausted, and  xve  orders  that  no  one  should  be 
admitted  on  any  pretext  whatever.  On  passing 
through  the  halls  to  my  private  apartment  1 
heard  an  altercation  at  the  door.  My  ordeiiv 
was  speaking  in  a  very  decided  tone  to  some  one. 

"  '  It  is  impossible,'  1  heard  him  say.  '  His 
Excellency  has  given  positive  orders  to  admit  no 
one  to-day.' 

"I  walked  on,  paying  but  little  heed  to  this. 
Applications  were  common  after  hours,  and  my 
rules  on  this  point  were  stringent.  But  sudden- 
ly my  attention  was  arrested  by  the  sound  of  a 
woman's  voice.  It  affected  me  strangely,  Chet- 
wynde. The  tones  were  sweet  and  low,  ami 
there  was  an  agony  of  supplication  in  them  which 
lent  additional  earnestness  to  her  words. 

" '  ( )h,  do  not  refuse  me  I'  the  voice  said.  '  They 
say  the  Resident  is  just  and  merciful.  Let  me 
see  him,  I  entreat,  if  only  for  one  moment.' 

"  At  these  words  I  turned,  and  at  once  ha.st- 
ened  to  the  door.  A  young  girl  stood  there, 
with  her  hands  clasped,  and  in  an  attitude  of 
earnest  entreaty.  She  had  evidently  come  close- 
ly veiled,  but  in  her  excitement  her  veil  had  been 
thrown  back,  and  her  upturned  face  lent  an  un- 
speakable earnestness  to  her  jileading.  At  the 
sight  of  her  I  was  filled  with  the  deepest  symjia- 
thy. 

"  '  I  am  the  Resident,'  said  I.  '  What  can  I 
do  for  you  ?' 

"She  looked  at  me  earnestly,  and  for  a  time 
said  nothing.  A  change  came  over  her  face. 
Her  troubles  seemed  to  have  overwhelmed  her. 
She  tottered,  and  would  have  fallen,  had  I  not 
su]iported  her.  I  led  her  into  the  liouse,  and 
sent  for  some  wine.     This  restored  her. 

"She  was  the  most  beautiful  creature  that  I 
ever  beheld,"  continued  the  General,  in  a  pen- 
sive tone,  after  some  silence.  "She  was  tall  and 
slight,  with  all  that  litheness  and  grace  of  move- 
ment which  is  peculiar  to  Indian  women,  and 
yet  she  seemed  more  European  than  Indian. 
Her  face  was  small  and  oval,  her  hair  hung 
round  it  in  rich  masses,  and  her  eyes  were  large, 
deep,  and  licpiid,  and,  in  addition  to  their  natu- 
ral beauty,  they  bore  that  snd  expression  which, 
it  is  said,  is  the  sure  precursor  of  an  early  death. 
Thank  God!"  continued  the  General,  in  a  mus- 
ing tone,  "  I  at  least  did  something  to  brighten 
that  short  life  of  hers. 

"As  soon  as  she  was  sufficiently  recovered 
she  told  her  story.  It  was  a  strange  one.  She 
was  the  daughter  of  an  English  officer,  who  hav- 
ing fallen  in  love  with  an  Indian  Begum  gave 
up  home,  country,  and  friends,  and  married 
her.  Their  daughter  Arauna  had  been  brought 
up  in  the  European  manner,  and  to  the  warm, 
passionate,  Indian  nature  she  added  the  re- 
fined intelligence  of  the  English  lady.  When 
she  was  fourteen  her  father  died.  Her  mother 
followed  in  a  few  years.  ( )f  her  father's  friends 
she  knew  nothing,  and  her  niother's  brother, 
who  was  the  Rajah  of  a  distant  province,  was 
the  only  one  on  whom  she  could  rely.  Her  mo- 
ther while  dying  charged  her  alwnys  to  remem- 
ber that  she  was  the  daughter  of  a  liritisli  of- 
ficer, and  that  if  she  were  ever  in  need  of  jiro- 
tection  she  should  demand  it  of  the  English  au- 
thorities.    After  lu'i  mother's  death  the  Rajah 


THE  CUYPTOGKAM. 


11 


took  her  away,  and  assumed  the  control  of  all 
her  inheritance.  At  the  age  of  eighteen  slie  was 
to  come  into  possession,  and  as  the  time  drew 
near  the  Knjah  informed  her  that  he  wished  fic  • 
to  marry  his  son.  Hut  this  son  was  detestable 
to  her,  and  to  her  Engli.sh  ideas  the  proposal  was 
abhorrent.  She  refused  to  marry  him.  The 
liajah  swore  that  she  should.  At  tiiis  she  threat- 
ened that  she  would  claim  tiie  protection  of  the 
Hritish  government.  Fearfid  of  this,  and  en- 
raged at  her  firmness,  he  confined  her  in  her 
rooms  for  several  months,  and  at  length  threat- 
ened that  if  she  did  not  consent  he  would  use 
force.  Tliis  threat  reduced  her  to  despair.  She 
determined  to  escape  and  appeal  to  the  Britisli 
authorities.  She  bribed  her  attendants,  escaped, 
and  by  good  fortune  reached  my  Residency. 

''On  hearing  her  story  I  promised  that  full 
justice  should  be  done  her,  and  succeeded  in 
((uieting  her  fears.  I  obtained  a  suitable  home 
for  her,  and  found  the  widow  of  an  English  officer 
who  consented  to  live  wit!',  lier. 

"Ah,  Clietwynde,  how  I  loved  her!  A  year 
passed  away,  and  she  became  my  wife.  Never 
i)efore  had  I  known  such  happiness  as  I  enjoyed 
with  her.  Never  ."nee  have  I  known  any  happi- 
ness whatever.  She  loved  me  with  such  devo- 
tion that  she  would  have  laid  down  her  life  for 
me.  She  looked  on  me  as  her  savior  as  well  as 
her  husband.  My  happiness  was  too  great  to 
last. 

"I  felt  it — I  knew  it,"  he  continued,  in  a 
l)roken  voice.  "Two  years  my  darling  lived 
with  me,  and  then— she  was  taken  away. 

"I  was  ill  for  a  long  time,"  continued  the  Gen- 
eral, in  a  gentle  voice.  "I  prayed  for  death, 
l)ut  God  spared  me  for  my  child's  sake.  I  re- 
covered sufficiently  to  attend  to  the  duties  of  my 
office,  but  it  was  with  difficulty  that  I  did  so.  I 
never  regained  my  former  strength.  My  child 
grew  older,  and  at  length  I  determined  to  return 
to  England.  I  have  come  here  to  find  all  my 
relatives  dead,  and  you,  the  old  friend  of  my  boy- 
hood, are  the  only  survivor.  One  thing  there  is, 
however,  that  imbitters  my  situation  now.  My 
health  is  still  very  jjrecarious,  and  I  may  at  any 
moment  leave  my  child  unprotected.  She  is  the 
one  concern  of  my  life.  I  said  that  I  had  come 
here  to  ask  a  favor  of  you.  It  was  this,  that  yon 
would  allow  me  to  nominate  you  as  her  guardian 
in  case  of  my  death,  and  assist  me  also  in  finding 
any  other  guardian  to  succeed  you  in  case  you 
slioidd  pass  away  before  she  reached  maturity. 
This  was  my  jjurpose.  But  after  what  you  have 
told  me  other  things  have  occurred  to  my  mind. 
I  have  been  tliinking  of  a  plan  which  seems  to 
me  to  be  the  best  thing  for  both  of  us. 

"Listen  now  to  my  proposal,"  he  said,  with 
greater  earnestness.  "That  yon  should  give  up 
Ghetwynde  is  not  to  be  thought  of  for  one  mo- 
ment. In  addition  to  my  own  patrimony  and 
my  wife's  inheritance  I  have  amassed  a  fortune 
during  my  residence  in  India,  and  I  can  think 
of  no  better  use  for  it  than  in  helping  my  old 
friend  in  his  time  of  need. " 

Lord  Clietwynde  raised  his  hand  deprecatingly, 

"  Wait — no  remonstrance.  Hear  me  out,"  .said 
the  General.  ' '  I  do  not  ask  you  to  take  this  as  a 
loan,  or  any  thing  of  the  kind.  I  only  ask  you 
to  be  a  protector  to  my  child.  I  could  not  rest 
in  my  grave  if  [  thought  that  I  had  left  her  un- 
protected." 


"What!"  cried  Lord  Cletwynde,  hastily  in- 
terrupting him,  "can  you  imagine  that  it  is 
necess'iry  to  buy  my  good  offices'?'' 

"  Yon  don't  understand  me  yet,  Clietwynde ; 
I  want  more  than  that.  I  want  to  secure  a  pro- 
tector for  her  all  i  r  life.  Since  you  have  told 
me  about  your  aft'airs  I  have  formed  a  strong  de- 
sire to  see  her  betrothed  to  your  son.  True,  I 
have  never  .seen  him,  but  I  know  \^ry  well  the 
stock  he  comes  from.  I  know  his  father,"  he 
went  on,  laying  his  hand  on  his  friend's  arm ; 
"and  I  trust  the  son  is  like  the  father.  In  this 
way  you  see  there  wi'l  be  no  gift,  no  loan,  no 
obligation.  The  Chetwynde  debts  will  be  all 
paid  oft",  but  it  is  for  my  daughter ;  and  where 
could  1  get  a  better  dowry  ?" 

"But  she  must  be  very  young,"  said  Lord 
Chetwvnde,  "  if  you  were  not  married  until  forty- 
five."  " 

"She  is  only  a  child  yet,"  said  the  General. 
"She  is  ten  years  old.  That  need  not  signify, 
however.  The  engagement  can  be  made  just  as 
well.  I  free  he  estate  from  all  its  encumbrances : 
and  as  she  will  eventually  be  a  Chetwynde,  it  will 
be  for  her  sake  as  well  as  your  son's.  There  is 
no  obligation." 

Lord  Chetwynde  wrung  his  friend's  hand. 

"1  do  not  know  what  to  say,"  said  he.  "It 
would  add  years  to  my  life  to  know  that  my  son 
is  not  to  lose  the  inheritance  of  his  ancestors. 
But  of  course  I  can  make  no  definite  arrange- 
ments until  I  have  seen  him.  He  is  the  one 
chiefly  interested  ;  and  besides,"  he  added,  smil- 
ingly, "I  can  not  expect  you  to  take  a  father's 
estimate  of  an  only  son.  You  must  judge  him 
for  yourself,  and  see  whether  my  account  has 
been  too  partial." 

"Of  course,  of  course.  I  must  see  him  nt 
once,"  broke  in  the  General.     "  Where  is  he ':"" 

"In  Ireland.  I  will  telegraph  to  him  to- 
night, and  he  will  be  here  in  a  couple  of 
days." 

"  He  could  not  come  sooner,  I  suppose?"  said 
the  General,  anxiously. 

Lord  ('hetwynde  laughed. 

"I  hardly  think  so — from  Ulster.  But  why 
such  haste?  It  positively  alarms  me,  for  I'm  an 
idle  man,  and  have  had  my  time  on  my  hands 
for  half  a  lifetime." 

"The  old  story,  ChetwjTide,"  said  the  Gen- 
eral, with  a  smile;  "petticoat  government.  I 
jiromised  my  little  girl  that  I  would  be  back  to- 
morrow. She  will  be  sadly  disappointed  at  a 
day's  delay.  I  shall  be  almost  afi'aid  to  meet 
her.  I  fear  she  has  been  a  little  spoiled,  poor 
child ;  but  you  can  scarcely  wonder,  under  the 
circumstances.  Afler  all,  she  is  a  good  child 
though ;  she  has  the  strongest  possible  aflFection 
for  me,  and  I  can  guide  her  as  I  please  through 
her  atfections." 

After  some  further  conversation  Lord  Chet- 
wynde sent  off  a  telegram  to  his  son  to  come 
home  without  delay. 


CHAPTER  II. 


THF.   WEIRD   WOMAN. 


Thk  morning-room  at  Chetwynde  Castle  was 
about  the  jilensantest  one  there,  and  the  air  of 
poverty  which  prevailed  elsewhere  was  here  lost 


12 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


I]  't' 


in  the  general  nppenrnnce  of  comfort.  It  wns  a 
large  aimrtinent,  coininensunite  witli  the  size  of 
the  (tastic,  unci  the  Ueep  bay-windows  command- 
ed an  extensive  view. 

On  the  morning  following  the  conversation  al- 
ready mentioned  (ieneral  I'omeroy  arose  early, 
and  it  was  toward  this  room  that  he  turned  his 
steps.  Tiiroiighout  the  castle  there  was  that  air 
of  neglect  already  alluded  to,  so  that  the  morn- 
ing-room afforded  a  ))leasant  contrast.  Here  all 
the  comfort  that  remuiiied  at  dhetwynde  seCi  .'jd 
to  have  centred.  It  was  with  a  feeling  of  in- 
lensc  satisfaction  that  the  General  seated  him- 
self in  an  arm-chair  which  stood  within  the  deep 
recess  of  the  bay-window,  and  surveyed  thear-irt- 
ment. 

Tli'j  room  was  about  forty  feet  long  and  thirty 
feet  i\ide.  The  ceiling  was  coviM'cd  with  quaint 
i'g'tieii  in  fresco,  the  walls  were  paneled  with 
oak,  and  high-backeJ,  stolid-lookiuf  chairs  stood 
around.  On  one  side  was  the  fii'e-i)lace,  so  vast 
and  so  high  that  it  seemed  itself  another  room. 
It  was  the  fine  old  fire-place  of  the  Tudor  or 
I'lantagenet  period — the  uneijualed,  the  unsur- 
passed— whose  day  has  long  since  been  done, 
and  which  in  departing  from  the  world  has  left 
nothing  to  compensate  for  it.  Still,  the  fire- 
place lingers  in  a  few  old  mansions ;  and  here 
at  (!lhetwynde  Castle  was  one  without  a  peer. 
It  was  lofty,  it  was  broad,  it  was  deep,  it  was 
well-paved,  it  was  oniameiited  not  carelessly, 
but  lovingly,  as  though  the  hearth  was  the  holy 
place,  the  altar  of  the  castle  and  of  the  family. 
There  was  room  in  its  wide  ex])anse  for  the  gath- 
ering of  a  household  about  the  fire ;  its  embrace 
\vas  the  embrace  of  love ;  .ind  it  was  the  type 
lUid  model  of  those  venera'.ife  and  hallowed  places 
which  have  given  to  the  English  language  a  word 
iiolier  even  than  "  Home,"  since  that  word  is 
•'  Hearth.' 

It  was  with  some  such  thoughts  as  these  tliat 
General  I'omeroy  sat  looking  at  the  fire-place, 
where  a  few  fagots  sent  up  a  ruddy  blaze,  when 
suddenly  his  attention  was  arrested  by  a  figure 
which  entered  the  room.  So  quiet  and  noiseless 
was  the  entrance  that  he  did  not  notice  it  until 
the  figure  stood  between  him  and  the  fire.  It 
was  a  woman ;  and  certainly,  of  all  the  women 
whom  he  had  ever  seen,  no  one  had  possessed  so 
weird  and  mystical  an  aspect.  She  was  a  lit- 
tle over  the  middle  height,  but  exceedingly  thin 
and  emaciated.  She  wore  a  cap  and  a  gown  of 
black  serge,  and  looked  more  like  a  Sister  of 
Charity  than  any  thing  else.  Her  features  weit; 
thin  and  shrunken,  her  cheeks  hollow,  her  chin 
peaked,  and  her  hair  was  as  white  as  snow.  Yet 
the  hair  was  very  thick,  and  the  ci\\)  coidd  not 
conceal  its  heavy  white  masses.  Her  side-face 
was  turned  toward  him,  and  he  cotdd  not  see 
her  fully  at  first,  until  at  length  she  turned  to- 
ward a  pictin'e  which  hung  over  the  fire-place, 
and  i?tood  regarding  it  fixeclly. 

It  was  the  portrait  of  a  young  man  in  the  dress 
of  ft  Britisti  officer.  The  General  knew  that  it 
was  the  only  son  of  Lord  Chetwynde,  for  whom 
he  had  written,  and  whom  he  was  expecting; 
and  now,  as  he  sat  there  with  his  eyes  riveted  on 
this  singular  figure,  he  was  amazed  at  the  ex- 
l)ression  of  her  face. 

Her  eyes  were  large  and  dark  and  mysterious. 
Iler  face  bore  unmistakable  traces 'of  sorrow. 
Deep  lines  were  graven  on  her  pale  forehead, 


and  on  her  wan,  thin  cheeks.  Her  hair  was 
white  as  snow,  and  her  complexion  was  of  an 
unearthly  grayish  hue.  It  was  a  memorable  face 
— -'a  face  which,  once  seen,  might  haunt  one  long 
afterwaril.  In  the  eyes  tliere  was  tenderness  and 
softness,  yet  the  fnshion  of  the  nu)uth  and  chin 
seemed  to  speak  of  resolution  and  forte,  in  spite 
of  the  ravages  which  age  or  sorrow  had  made. 
She  stood  (piite  unconscious  of  the  (ieneral's 
presence,  looking  at  the  portrait  with  a  fixed  and 
ni])t  expression.  As  she  gazed  her  face  changed 
in  its  asjicct.  In  the  eyes  there  arose  unuttera- 
ble longing  and  tenderness;  love  so  deep  that 
the  sight  of  it  thus  iii: consciously  exi)ressed  might 
have  softened  the  hardest  and  sternest  nature; 
while  over  all  her  features  the  same  yearning  ex- 
])re.-.sion  was  spread.  Gradually,  as  she  stood, 
she  raised  her  thin  white  hands  and  clasped 
them  togethor,  and  so  stood,  intent  pon  the 
])ortrait,  as  though  she  found  some  spell  there 
whose  power  was  overmastering. 

At  the  sight  of  so  weird  and  ghostly  a  figiu'c 
the  (Jeneral  was  strangely  moved.  There  was 
something  startling  in  such  an  apparition.  At 
first  there  came  involuntarily  half-superstitious 
thoughts.  He  recalled  all  those  mysterious  be- 
ings of  whom  he  had  ever  heard  whose  occujja- 
tion  was  to  haunt  the  seats  of  old  families.  He 
thought  of  the  AVhite  Lady  of  Avenel,  the  IJlack 
Lady  of  Scarborough,  the  Goblin  Woman  of 
Hurst,  and  the  Ulceding  Nun.  A  second  glance 
.served  to  show  him,  however,  that  she  coidd  by 
no  ])ossil)ility  fill  the  important  post  of  Family 
Ghost,  but  was  real  flesh  and  blood.  Yet  even 
thus  she  was  scarcely  loss  impressive.  Most  of 
all  was  he  moved  by  the  sorrow  of  her  face.  She 
might  serve  for  Niobe  with  her  children  dead ; 
she  might  servo  for  Hecuba  over  the  bodies  of 
I'oly  xena  tnd  I'olydore.  The  sorrows  of  woman 
have  ever  been  greater  than  those  of  num.  The 
widow  sutlers  more  than  the  widower ;  the  be- 
reaved mother  than  the  bereaved  father.  The 
ideals  of  grief  are  found  in  the  faces  of  women, 
and  reach  their  intensity  in  the  woe  that  meets 
our  eyes  in  the  Mater  Dolorosa.  This  woman 
was  one  of  the  great  community  of  sutt'erers,  and 
anguisii  both  past  and  present  still  left  its  traces 
on  her  face. 

Besides  all  this  there  was  something  more; 
and  «'hile  the  General  was  awed  by  the  majesty 
of  sorrow,  he  was  at  the  same  time  per])lexed  by 
an  inexi)licable  familiarity  which  he  felt  with  that 
face  of  woe.  Where,  in  the  years,  had  he  seen 
it  before?  Or  had  he  seen  it  before  at  all;  or 
had  he  oidy  known  it  in  dreams?  In  vain  he 
tried  to  recollect.  Nothing  from  out  his  past 
life  recurred  to  his  mind  which  bore  any  resem- 
blance to  this  face  before  him.  The  eiuleavor  to 
recall  this  past  grew  painful,  and  at  length  he  re- 
turned to  himself.  Then  he  dismissed  the  idea 
as  fanciful,  and  began  to  feel  uiu;omfortable,  as 
thougli  he  were  witnessing  something  which  ho 
had  no  business  to  see.  She  was  evidently  un- 
conscious of  his  presence,  and  to  be  u  witness  of 
her  emotion  under  such  circumstun<'es  seemed  to 
him  as  bad  as  eaves-dropping.  The  moment, 
therefore,  that  he  had  overcome  his  surprise  he 
turned  his  head  away,  looked  out  of  the  window, 
and  coughed  .several  times.  Then  he  rose  from 
his  chair,  and  after  staiuling  for  a  moment  ho 
turned  once  more. 

As  he  turned  he  found  himself  face  to  face 


il      *  '■■■ 


THE  CRYPTOGKAM. 


i;! 


"SHK    TUltNED    TOWAKI)    A    I'ICTL'KK    WHICH    HUNG    OVKR    THE    rUlK-l'I-ACE,   AND    STUOH 

UKQAKniNG    IT    FIXEIJLY." 


with  the  womnn.    She  had  henrd  him,  and  turned 
with  a  start,  niul  turning  thus  iheir  eyes  met. 

If  the  General  had  been  surprised  before,  he 
was  now  still  more  so  at  the  emotion  which  she 
evinced  at  the  sight  of  himself.    !She  started  back 


as  though  rcroiling  from  him :  her  eyes  were  fixcl 
and  starinj;,  her  li|)s  moved,  her  hands  clutched 
one  anotlier  convidsively.  Then,  by  a  sudden 
effort,  she  soeniod  to  recover  herself,  and  the 
wild  stnrc  of  astonishment  gave  place  to  u  swift 


14 


THE  CRYrrOGRAM. 


( 


ii 


glance  of  keen,  shnq),  and  eager  scrutiny.  All 
I  his  was  tlio  work  of  iin  instant.  Then  her  eyes 
liropped,  and  with  a  low  courtesy  she  tnrned 
away,  and  after  arranging  some  chairs  she  left 
the  room. 

The  General  drew  a  long  breath,  and  stood 
looking  at  the  doorway  in  utter  bewilderment. 
The  whole  incident  had  been  rno^^t  perplexing. 
There  was  first  her  stealthy  entry,  and  the  sud- 
denness with  which  she  had  ap;eaifu  bt  fore 
liim  ;  then  those  mystic  surroundings  of  her 
strange,  weird  figure  wliich  had  c>\-ited  his  su- 
perstitions fancies ;  then  the  idea  which  had 
arisen,  that  somehow  he  had  known  her  be- 
fore ;  and,  finally,  the  wonnin's  own  strong  and 
imconcealed  emotion  at  the  sight  of  himself 
What  did  it  all  mean?  Had  he  ever  seen  her? 
Not  that  he  knew.  Had  she  ever  known  him  ? 
Jf  so,  when  and  where?  If  so,  why  such  emo- 
tion ?  Who  could  this  be  that  thus  recoiled  from 
him  at  encountering  his  glance  ?  And  he  found 
all  these  questions  utterly  unanswerable. 

In  the  General's  eventful  life  there  were  many 
tilings  which  he  could  recall.  He  had  wandered 
over  many  lands  in  all  parts  of  the  world,  and 
had  known  his  share  of  sorrow  and  of  joy.  ISeat- 
iug  himself  once  more  in  his  chair  ho  tried  to 
summon  up  before  his  memory  the  figures  of 
tile  past,  one  by  one,  and  compare  them  with 
this  woman  whom  he  had  seen.  Out  of  the 
gloom  of  that  past  the  ghostly  figures  came, 
and  i)assed  on,  and  vanished,  till  at  last  from 
among  them  al!  two  or  three  stood  forth  dis- 
tinctly and  vividly  ;  the  forms  of  those  who  had 
i)een  associated  with  him  in  one  event  of  his 
life ;  that  life's  first  great  tragedy ;  forms  well 
remembered — never  to  be  forgotten.  He  saw 
the  form  of  one  who  hud  been  betrayed  and 
forsaken,  bowed  and  crushed  by  grief,  and  star- 
ing with  while  face  and  haggard  eyes;  he  saw 
the  form  of  the  false  friend  and  foul  traitor 
slinking  away  with  averted  face;  he  saw  the 
form  of  the  true  friend,  true  as  steel,  standing 
up  solidly  in  his  loyalty  between  those  whom  he 
loved  and  the  Ruin  that  was  before  them ;  and, 
lastly,  he  saw  the  central  figure  of  all — a  fair 
young  woman  with  a  face  of  dazzling  beauty ; 
high-born,  haughty,  with  an  air  of  high-bred 
grace  and  inborn  delicacy;  but  the  beauty  was 
fading,  and  the  charm  of  all  that  grace  and  del- 
icacy was  veiled  under  a  cloud  of  shame  and 
sin.  The  face  bore  all  that  agony  of  woe  which  | 
looks  at  us  now  from  the  t  of  Guide's  Beatrice 
Cenci — eyes  which  disclose  .^nef  deeper  than 
tears  ;  eyes  whose  glance  is  never  forgotten.         j 

Suddenly  there  <'ame  to  the  General  a  Thought : 
like  lightning,  which  seemed  to  pierce  to  the  in-  ! 
most  depths  of  his  being.  He  started  back  as 
he  sat,  and  for  a  moment  looked  like  one  trans- 
formed to  stone.  At  the  horror  of  that  Thought 
his  face  changed  to  a  deathly  pallor,  his  features 
grew  rigid,  his  hands  clenched,  his  eyes  fixed  and 
staring  with  an  awfid  look  For  a  few  moments 
he  sat  thus,  and  then  with  a  deep  groan  he  sprang 
to  his  feet  and  paced  the  apartment. 

The  exercise  seemed  to  bring  relief. 

"I'm  a  cursed  fool!"  he  muttered.  "The 
thing's  impossible — yes,  absolutely  impossible." 

Again  and  again  he  paced  the  apartment,  and 
gradually  he  recovered  himself. 

"  Pooh !"  he  said  at  length,  as  he  resumed  his 
seat,  "she's  insane,  or,  more  probably,  /am  in- 


sane for  having  had  such  wild  thoughts  as  I  have 
had  this  morning." 

Then  with  a  heavy  sigh  he  looked  out  of  the 
window  abstractedly. 

An  hour  passed  and  Lord  Chetwynde  came 
down,  and  the  two  took  their  seats  at  the  break- 
fast-table. 

"By  -  the  -  way, "  said  the  General  at  length; 
after  some  conversation,  and  with  an  etfort  at 
indifTerence,  "who  is  that  very  singHlar-looki''g 
woi.ian  whom  vou  have  here  ?  IShe  seems  to  be 
about  sixty,  dresses  in  black,  has  very  white  hair, 
and  looks  like  a  Sister  of  Charity." 

"That?"  said  Lord  Chetwynde,  carelessly. 
"Oh,  that  must  be  the  housekeeper,  Mrs. 
Hart." 

"Mrs.  Hart — the  housekeeper?"  repeated  the 
General,  thoughtfully. 

' '  Yes ;  she  is  an  invaluable  woman  to  one  in 
my  position." 

"  I  suppose  she  is  some  old  family  servant." 

"No.  She  came  here  about  ten  years  ago. 
I  wanted  a  housekeeper,  she  heard  of  it,  and  ap- 
j)lied.  She  brought  excellent  recommendations, 
and  I  took  her.     She  has  done  very  well." 

"Have  you  ever  noticed  how  very  singular  her 
apjjcarance  is?" 

"Well,  no.  Is  it?  I  suppose  it  strikes  you 
so  as  a  stranger.  I  never  noticed  her  particu- 
larly." 

"  She  seems  to  have  had  some  great  sorrow," 
said  the  (Jeneral,  slowly. 

"Yes,  I  think  she  must  have  had  some  trou- 
bles. She  has  a  melancholy  way,  1  think.  I 
feel  sorry  for  the  i)oor  creature,  and  do  what  I 
can  for  her.  As  1  .said,  she  is  invaluable  to  me, 
and  I  owe  her  ])Ositive  gratitude."' 

"Is  she  fond  of  Gu^  .'"  asked  the  General, 
thinking  of  her  face  as  he  saw  it  upturned  to- 
ward the  portrait. 

"Exceedingly,"  said  Lord  Chetwynde.  "Guy 
was  about  eight  years  old  when  she  came.  From 
the  very  first  she  showed  the  greatest  fondness 
for  him,  and  attached  herself  to  him  with  a  de- 
votion which  surjjrised  me.  I  accounted  for  it 
on  the  ground  that  she  had  lost  a  son  of  hsr 
own,  and  perhaps  Guv  reminded  her  in  some 
way  of  him.  At  any  rate  she  has  always  been 
exceedingly  fond  of  him.  Yes,"  pursued  Lord 
Chetwynde,  in  a  musing  tone,  "I  owe  every 
thing  to  her,  for  she  once  saved  Guy's  life." 

".Sived  his  life?     How?" 

"Once,  when  I  was  away,  the  place  caught  fire 
in  the  wing  where  Guy  was  sleeping.  Mrs.  Hart 
rushed  through  the  flames  and  saved  him.  She 
nearly  killed  herself  too — poor  old  thing!  In 
addition  to  this  she  has  nursed  him  through 
three  different  attacks  of  disease  that  seemed 
fatal.  Why,  she  seems  to  love  Guy  as  fondly 
as  I  do." 

"And  does  Guy  love  her?" 

"  Exceedingly.  The  boy  is  most  affectionate 
by  nature,  and  of  course  she  is  prominent  in  his 
affections.     Next  to  me  he  Icves  her." 

The  General  now  turned  away  the  conversa- 
tion to  other  subjects ;  but  from  his  abstracted 
manner  it  was  evident  that  Mrs.  Hart  was  still 
foremost  in  his  thoughts. 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


15 


ersa- 

icted 

8tiU 


I 


CHAPTER  III. 

THE   BARTER  OF   A    LIFE. 

Two  evenings  afterward  a  carriage  drove  up 
to  the  door  of  Ciietwynde  Oastle,  and  a  young 
man  alighted.  The  door  was  opened  by  the  old 
butliir,  who,  with  a  ciy  of  delight,  exclaimed  ; 

"Master  Guy!  Master  Guy!  It's  welcome 
ye  are.  They've  been  lookin'  for  you  these  two 
liours  back." 

"  Any  thing  wrong  ?"  was  Guy's  first  exclama- 
tion, uttered  with  some  haste  and  anxiety. 

"Lord  love  ye,  there's  naught  amiss;  but 
ye're  welcome  "home,  right  welcome,  Master 
Guy,"  said  the  butler,  who  still  looked  upon 
his'young  master  as  the  little  boy  who  used  to 
ride  upon  his  back,  and  whose  tricks  were  at 
once  the  torment  and  delight  of  his  life. 

The  old  butler  himself  was  one  of  the  heir- 
looms of  the  family,  and  partook  to  the  full  of 
the  air  of  nntiijuity  which  ])ervadi'd  the  place. 
He  looked  like  the  relic  of  a  by-gone  generation. 
His  queue,  carefully  powdered  and  plaited,  stood 
out  stiff  from  the  back  of  his  head,  as  if  in  per- 
petual protest  against  any  new-fiingled  notions 
of  hair-dressing;  his  livery,  scrupulously  neat 
iind  well  brushed,  was  threadbare  and  of  an  ante- 
diluvian cut,  and  his  whole  ai)pearance  was  that 
of  highly  respectable  antediluvianism.  As  he 
stood  there  with  his  anti(iue  and  venerable  fig- 
ure his  whole  face  fairly  beamed  with  delight 
at  seeing  his  young  master. 

"1  was  afraid  my  father  might  be  ill,"  said 
Guv,  "  from  his  sending  for  me  in  such  a  hurry." 

'"'111?"  said  the  other,  radiant.  "My  lord 
be  better  and  cheerfuler  like  than  ever  I  have 
seen  him  since  he  came  back  from  Lunnon — the 
time  as  you  was  a  small  chap.  Master  Guy.  There 
be  a  gentleman  stopjnng  here.  He  and  my  lord 
liave  been  sittiu"  up  half  the  night  a-talkiii'.  I 
think  there  be  summut  up,  Master  Guy,  and  that 
he  be  connected  with  it ;  for  when  my  lord  told 
me  to  .send  you  the  telegram  he  said  as  it  were 
on  business  he  wanted  you,  but,"  he  added,  look- 
ing perplexed,  "it's  the  first  time  as  ever  I  heard 
of  business  niakin'  a  man  look  cheerful." 

Guy  made  a  jocular  observation  and  hurried 
past  him  into  the  hall.  As  he  entered  he  saw  a 
figure  standing  at  the  foot  of  the  great  staircase. 
It  was  Mrs.  Hart.  She  was  trembling  from  head 
to  foot  and  clinging  to  the  railing  for  support. 
Her  face  was  pale  as  usual ;  on  each  cheek  there 
was  a  hectic  flush,  and  her  eyes  were  fastened  on 
him. 

"  My  darling  nurse !"  cried  Guy  with  the  warm 
enthusiastic  tone  of  a  boy,  and  hurrying  toward 
her  he  embraced  her  and  kis,sed  her. 

The  poor  old  creature  trembled  and  did  not 
say  a  single  word. 

"Now  you  didn't  know  I  was  coming,  did 
you,  you  dear  old  thing  ?"  said  Guy.  "  But  what 
is  the  matter?  Why  do  you  tremble  so?  f)f 
course  you're  glad  to  see  your  boy.  Are  you  not  ?" 

Mrs.  Hart  looked  up  to  him  with  an  expression 
of  mute  affection,  deep,  fervent,  unspeakable; 
and  then  seizing  his  warm  young  hand  in  her 
own  wan  and  tremulous  ones,  she  |)ressed  it  to 
iter  thin  white  lips  and  covered  it  with  kisses. 

"Oh,  come  now,"  said  Guy,  "you  always 
break  down  this  way  when  I  come  home ;  but 
you  must  not — you  really  must  not.  If  you  do 
I  Won't  come  home  at  all  any  more,     f  really 


won't.  Come,  cheer  up.  I  don't  want  to  make 
you  cry  when  I  come  home." 

"  Hut  I'm  crying  for  joy,"  said  Mrs.  Hart,  in 
a  faint  voice.      "  Don't  be  angry." 

"You  dear  old  thing!  Angr\  ?"  exclaimed 
Guy,  afi'ectionately.  "Angry  wth  my  darling 
old  nurse?  Have  you  lost  your  senses,  old  wo- 
man? I5ut  where  is  my  father?  Why  has  ho 
sent  for  me?  There's  no  bad  news,  1  hear,  so 
that  I  suppose  all  is  right." 

"Yes,  all  is  well,"  said  Mrs.  Hart,  in  a  low 
voice.  "I  don't  know  why  you  were  sent  for, 
but  there  is  nothing  bad.  I  think  your  father 
sent  for  you  to  see  an  old  friend  of  his." 

"An  old  friend?" 

"  Yes.  General  Pomeroy,"  replied  Mrs.  Hart, 
in  a  constrained  voice.  "He  has  been  here  two 
or  three  days." 

"General  Pomeroy!  Is  it  possible?"  said 
Guy.  "Has  he  come  to  England?  1  didn't 
know  that  he  had  left  India.  I  must  hurry  up. 
Good-by,  old  woman,"  he  added,  affectionately, 
and  kissing  her  again  he  hurried  u])  stairs  to  his 
father's  room. 

Lord  Chetwynde  was  there,  and  General  Pom- 
eroy also.  The  greeting  between  father  and  sou 
was  affectionate  and  tender,  and  after  a  few  lov- 
ing words  Guy  was  introduced  to  the  General. 
He  shook  him  heartily  by  the  hand. 

"  I'm  sure,"  said  he,  "the  sight  of  you  has 
done  my  father  a  world  of  good.  He  looks  ten 
years  younger  than  he  did  when  I  last  saw  him. 
You  really  ought  to  take  up  your  abode  here,  or 
live  somewhere  near  him.  He  mopes  dreadfully, 
and  needs  nothing  so  much  as  the  society  of  an 
old  friend  You  coidd  rouse  him  from  his  blue 
fits  and  ennui,  and  give  him  new  life." 

Guy  then  went  on  in  a  rattling  way  to  narrate 
some  events  which  had  befallen  him  on  the  road. 
As  he  spoke  in  his  animated  and  enthusiastic 
way  General  Pomeroy  scanned  him  earnestly 
and  narrowly.  To  the  most  casual  observer 
Guy  Molyneux  must  have  been  singularly  pre- 
possessing. Tall  and  sliglit,  with  a  remarkably 
well-shaped  head  covered  with  dark  curling  hair, 
hazel  eyes,  and  regular  features,  his  whole  ap- 
pearance was  eminently  patrician,  and  bore  the 
marks  of  high -breeding  and  refinement;  but 
there  was  something  more  than  this.  Those 
eyes  looked  forth  frankly  and  fearlessly ;  there 
was  a  joyous  light  in  them  which  awakened  sym- 
pathy ;  while  the  open  expression  of  his  face,  and 
the  clear  and  ringing  accent  of  his  fresh  young 
voice,  all  tended  to  inspire  confidence  and  trust. 
General  Pomeroy  noted  all  this  with  delight,  for 
in  his  anxiety  for  his  daughter's  future  he  saw 
that  Guy  was  one  to  whom  he  might  safely  in- 
trust the  deaiest  idol  of  his  heart. 

"Come,  Guy,"  said  Lord  Chetwynde  at  last, 
after  his  son  had  rattled  on  for  half  an  hour  or 
more,  "if  you  are  above  all  considerations  of 
dinner,  we  are  not.  I  have  already  had  it  put 
off  two  hours  for  you,  and  wo  should  like  to  see 
some  signs  of  preparation  on  your  part." 

"All  right,  .Sir.  I  shall  be  on  hand  by  the 
time  it  is  announced,"  said  Guy,  cheerily ;  "you 
don't  generally  have  to  complain  of  me  in  that 
particular,  I  think." 

So  saying,  (iuy  nodded  gayly  to  them  and  left 
the  room,  and  they  presently  heard  him  whistling 
through  the  [lassagee  gems  from  the  last  new 
opera.  ,  .  ,_,     .^ 


la 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


..  }■ 


ii  ■ 


If 


"A  splendid  follow,"  said  tlie  Generiil,  a8  the 
door  closed,  in  a  tone  of  lieiirty  admiration.  "  I 
Hoe  his  father  over  again  in  him.  1  only  hope  he 
will  come  into  our  views." 

"I  can  answer  for  his  being  only  too  ready  to 
do  80,"  said  Lord  (Jhetwynde,  confidently. 

"lie  exceeds  the  utmost  hopes  that  I  had 
formed  of  him,"  said  the  General.  "I  did  not 
expect  to  see  so  frank  and  o|)en  a  face,  and  such 
freshness  of  imiocence  and  purity. " 

Lord  Clietwynde's  face  showed  ull  the  delight 
which  a  fond  father  feels  at  hearing  tiie  praises 
of  an  only  son. 

Dinner  came  and  passed.  Tiie  General  re- 
tired, and  Lord  (^Jhetwynde  then  explained  to  his 
son  the  whole  plan  wliich  had  been  made  about 
him.  It  was  a  plan  winch  was  to  affect  his  whole 
life  most  profoundly  in  its  most  tender  part;  but 
Guy  was  a  thoughtless  boy,  and  received  the  pro- 
posal like  such.  He  showed  nothing  but  delight. 
He  neviT  dreamed  of  objecting  to  any  thing.  He 
ileclarti!  that  it  seemed  to  him  too  good  to  be 
"•••3.  J  lis  thoughts  did  not  appear  to  dwell  at  all 
,<onhisown  share  in  this  transaction,  though  sure- 
ly to  him  that  share  was  of  infinite  importance, 
but  only  on  the  fact  that  Chetwynde  was  saved. 

"And  is  Chetwynde  really  to  be  ours,  after 
all?"  he  cried,  at  the  end  of  a  burst  of  delight, 
repeating  the  words,  boy-like,  over  and  over 
again,  as  though  he  could  never  tire  of  hearing 
the  words  rei)eated.  After  all,  one  can  not 
wonder  at  his  thoughtlessness  and  enthusiasm. 
Around  CJhetwynde  all  the  associations  of  his 
life  were  twined.  Until  he  had  joined  the  regi- 
ment he  had  knovn  no  other  home :  and  beyond 
this,  to  this  high-spirited  youth,  in  whom  pride 
of  birth  and  name  rose  very  high,  there  had  been 
from  his  earliest  childhood  a  bitter  humiliation 
in  the  thought  that  the  inheritance  of  his  ances- 
tors, which  had  never  known  any  other  than  a 
(Chetwynde  for  its  master,  must  pass  from  him 
forever  into  alien  hands.  Hitherto  his  love  for 
his  fother  had  comjjelled  him  to  refrain  from  all 
exj)ression  of  his  feelings  about  this,  for  he  well 
knew  that,  bitter  as  it  would  be  for  him  to  give 
up  Chetwynde,  to  his  father  it  would  be  still 
worse — it  would  be  like  rending  his  very  heart- 
strings. Often  hud  he  feared  tiiat  this  sacrifice 
to  honor  on  his  father's  part  would  be  more  than 
could  be  endured.  He  had,  for  his  father's  sake, 
pnt  a  restraint  upon  himself;  but  this  conceal- 
ment of  his  feelings  had  only  increased  the  in- 
tensity of  those  feelings ;  the  shadow  iiad  been 
gradually  deepening  over  his  whole  life,  throw- 
ing gloom  over  the  sunlight  of  his  joyous  youth  ; 
and  now,  for  the  first  time  in  many  years,  that 
shadow  seemed  to  be  disi)elled.  Surely  there  is  no 
wonder  that  a  mcJre  boy  should  be  reckless  of  the 
future  in  the  sunshine  of  such  a  golden  ])resent. 

When  General  Pomeroy  appeared  again,  Guy 
seized  his  hand  in  a  burst  of  generous  emotion, 
with  his  eyes  glistening  with  tears  of  joy. 

"How  can  I  ever  thank  yon,"  he  cried,  im- 
petuously, "  for  what  you  have  done  for  us !  As 
you  have  done  by  us,  so  will  I  do  l)y  your  daugh- 
ter— to  my  life's  end — so  help  me  God!" 

Avid  all  this  time  did  it  never  suggest  itself  to 
the  young  man  that  there  might  be  a  reverse  to 
the  brilliant  picture  which  his  fancy  was  so  busily 
sketching — that  there  was  required  from  him 
something  more  than  money  or  estate ;  some- 
thing, indeed,  in  comparison  with  which  even 


Chetwynde  itself  was  as  nothing?  No.  In  his 
inexperience  and  thoughtlessness  ho  would  have 
looked  with  amazement  upon  any  one  who  would 
have  suggested  that  there  might  be  a  drawback 
to  the  hai>pines8  which  he  was  jjortraying  before 
his  mind.  Yet  surely  this  thing  ci.iiie  most  se- 
verely upon  him.  He  gave  up  the  most,  for  he 
gave  himself.  To  save  Chetwynde,  he  was  un- 
consciously selling  his  own  soul.  lie  was  bar- 
tering his  life.  All  his  future  dej)ended  upon 
this  hasty  act  of  a  moment.  The  hajjpiness  of 
tiie  mature  man  was  risked  by  the  thoughtless 
act  of  a  boy.  If  in  after-life  this  truth  came 
home  to  him,  it  was  only  that  he  might  see  that 
the  act  was  irrevocable,  and  that  he  must  bear 
the  consequences.     Hut  so  it  is  in  life. 

That  evening,  after  the  General  had  retired, 
Guy  and  his  father  sat  up  far  into  the  night,  dis- 
cussing the  future  which  lay  before  them.  To 
each  of  them  the  future  inariiage  seemed  but  a 
secondary  event,  an  accident,  an  episode.  The 
first  thing,  and  almost  the  only  thing,  was  the 
salvation  of  (Chetwynde.  Those  day-dreams 
which  they  had  cherished  for  so  many  years 
seemed  now  about  to  be  realized,  and  Chetwynde 
would  be  restored  to  all  its  former  glory.  Now, 
for  the  first  time,  each  let  the  other  see,  to  tlie  full, 
how  grievous  the  loss  would  have  been  to  him. 

It  was  not  until  after  all  the  future  of  Chet- 
wynde had  been  discussed,  that  the  thoughts  of 
Guy's  engagement  occurred  to  his  father. 

"But,  Guy,"  said  he,  "you  are  forgetting 
one  thing,  '^oii  must  not  in  your  joy  lose  sight 
of  the  important  pledge  which  has  been  de- 
manded of  you.  You  have  entered  ui)on  a  very 
solemn  obligation,  which  we  both  are  incHued  to 
treat  rather  lightly." 

"Of  course  I  remember  it.  Sir;  and  I  only 
wish  it  were  something  twenty  times  as  hard 
that  I  could  do  for  the  dear  old  General,"  an- 
swered Guy,  enthusiastically. 

"  But,  my  boy,  this  may  ))rove  a  severe  sacri- 
fice in  the  future, "  said  Lord  Clietwynde,  thought- 
fully. 

"What?  To  marry,  father?  Of  course  I 
shall  marry  some  time;  and  as  to  the  question 
of  whom,  why,  so  long  as  she  is  a  lady  (and 
General  I'omeroy's  daughter  must  be  this),  and 
is  not  a  fright  (I  own  I  hate  ugly  women),  I 
don't  care  who  she  is.  But  the  daughter  of  such 
a  man  as  that  ought  to  be  a  little  angel,  and  as 
beautiful  as  I  could  desire.  I  am  all  impatience 
to  see  her.     By-the-way,  how  old  is  she  ?" 

"Ten  years  old." 

"Ten  years!"  echoed  Guy,  laughing  boister- 
ously. "  1  need  not  distress  myself,  then,  about 
her  personnel  for  a  good  many  years  at  any  rate. 
But,  I  say,  father,  isn't  the  General  a  little  ])re- 
inature  in  getting  his  daughter  settled  ?  Talk  of 
match-making  mothers  after  this!" 

The  young  man's  flippant  tone  jarred  upon  his 
father.  "He  had  good  reasons  for  the  haste  to 
which  you  object,  (iuy, "  said  Lord  Chetwynde. 
"One  was  the  friendlessness  of  his  daughter  in 
the  event  of  any  thing  hap])ening  to  him  ;  and 
the  other,  and  a  stronger  motive  (for  under  any 
circumstances  I  should  have  been  her  guardian), 
was  to  assist  your  father  upon  the  only  terms 
upon  which  he  could  have  accepted  assistance 
with  honor.  By  this  arrangement  his  daughter 
reaps  the  full  benefit  of  his  money,  and  he  has 
his  own  mind  at  ease.     And,  remember,  Guy," 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


17 


continued  Lord  Chetwynde,  solemnly,  "  from 
this  time  you  must  consider  yourself  us  a  mar- 
ried man  ;  for,  iilrhougli  no  altar  vow  or  priestly 
benediction  binds  you,  yt  by  every  law  of  that 
Honor  by  which  you  profess  ti>  l>e  guided,  you 
are  bound  irrevocabli/. " 

"I  know  that,"  answered  Guy,  ligh'ly.  "1 
think  you  will  never  find  me  unmindful  of  that 
tie."  ' 

"  I  trust  you,  my  boy," said  Lord  Chetwynde, 
•'as  I  would  trust  viyself." 


CHAPTER  IV. 


A   STARTLING   VISITOR. 


After  dinner  the  General  had  retired  to  his 
room,  supposing  that  Guy  and  the  Earl  would 
wish  to  be  together.  He  had  much  to  think  of. 
First  of  all  there  was  his  daughter  Zillah,  in 
whom  all  his  being  was  bound  up.  Her  minia- 
ture was  on  the  mantle-piece  of  the  room,  and 
to  this  he  went  first,  and  taking  it  up  in  his 
bands  he  sat  down  in  an  arm-chair  by  the  win- 
dow, and  feasted  his  eyes  upon  it.  His  face 
bore  an  expression  of  the  same  delight  which  a 
lover  shows  when  looking  at  the  likeness  of  his 
mistress.  At  times  a  smile  lighted  it  up,  and  so 
wrapt  up  was  he  in  this  that  more  than  an  horn- 
passed  before  he  put  the  picture  away.  Then 
he  resumed  his  seat  by  the  window  and  looked 
out.  It  was  dusk ;  but  the  moon  was  shining 
brightly,  and  threw  a  silvery  gleam  over  the 
dark  trees  of  Chetwynde,  over  the  grassy  slopes, 
and  over  the  distant  bills.  That  scene  turned 
his  attention  in  a  new  direction.  The  shadows 
of  the  trees  seemed  to  suggest  the  shadows  of 
the  past.  Back  over  that  past  his  mind  went 
wandering,  encountering  the  scenes,  the  forms, 
and  the  faces  of  long  ago — the  lost,  the  never- 
to-be-forgotten.  It  was  not  that  more  recent 
past  of  which  he  had  spoken  to  the  Earl,  but  one 
more  distant — one  which  intermingled  with  the 
Earl's  past,  and  which  the  Earl's  story  had  sug- 
gested. It  brought  hack  old  loves  and  old  hates ; 
it  suggested  memories  which  had  lain  dormant 
for  years,  but  now  rose  before  him  clothed  in 
fresh  power,  as  vivid  as  the  events  from  which 
they  flowed.  There  was  trouble  in  these  memo- 
ries, and  the  General's  mind  was  agitated,  and 
in  his  agitation  he  left  the  chair  and  paced  the 
room.  He  rang  for  lights,  and  after  they  came  he 
seated  himself  at  the  table,  took  paper  and  pens, 
and  began  to  lose  himself  in  calculations. 

Some  time  passed,  when  at  length  ten  o'clock 
came,  and  the  General  heard  a  faint  tap  at  the 
door.  It  was  so  faint  that  he  could  barely  hear 
it,  and  at  firet  supposed  it  to  be  either  his  fancy 
or  else  one  of  the  death-watches  making  a  some- 
what louder  noise  than  usual.  He  took  no  fur- 
ther notice  of  it,  but  went  on  with  his  occupa- 
tion, when  he  was  again  interrupted  by  a  louder 
knock.  This  time  there  was  no  mistake.  He 
rose  and  opened  the  door,  thinking  that  it  was 
the  Earl  who  had  broi'ght  him  some  information 
as  to  his  son's  views. 

Opening  the  door,  he  saw  a  slight,  frail  figure, 
dressed  in  a  nun-like  garb,  and  recognized  the 
housekeeper.  If  possible  she  seemed  paler  than 
usual,  and  her  eyes  were  fixed  upon  him  with 
a  strange  wistful  earnestness.  Her  appearance 
B 


was  so  unex])ected,  and  her  expression  so  pecul- 
iar, that  the  (ienerul  involuntarily  started  buck. 
For  a  moment  he  stood  looking  at  her,  and  then, 
recovering  with  an  effort  bis  self-possession,  he 
asked  : 

"Did  you  wish  to  see  mo  about  any  thing, 
Mrs.  Hart?" 

"  If  I  could  speak  a  few  words  to  you  I  should 
be  grateful,"  was  the  answer,  in  a  low,  supplica- 
ting tone. 

'•  Wnn't  you  walk  in,  then?"  said  the  General, 
in  a  kindly  voice,  feeling  a  strange  commiHcra- 
tion  for  the  ])oor  creature,  whose  face,  manner, 
and  voice  exhibited  so  much  wretchedness. 

The  General  held  the  door  open,  and  waited 
for  her  to  enter.  Then  closing  the  door  he  of- 
fered her  a  chair,  and  resumed  his  former  seat. 
But  the  housekeeper  declined  sitting.  She  stood 
looking  strangely  confused  and  troubled,  and  for 
some  time  did  not  speak  a  word.  The  (Jenerul 
waited  i)atiently,  and  regarded  her  earnestly.  In 
spite  of  himself  he  found  that  feeling  arising  with- 
in him  which  had  occurred  in  the  morning-room 
— a  feeling  as  if  he  had  somewhere  known  this 
woman  before.  Who  was  she?  What  did  it 
mean  ?  Was  he  a  precious  old  fool,  or  was  there 
really  some  important  mystery  connected  with 
Mrs.  Hart?    Such  were  his  thoughts. 

Perhaps  if  he  had  seen  nothing  more  of  Jlrs. 
Hart  the  Earl's  account  of  her  would  have  been 
accepted  by  him,  and  no  thoughts  of  her  would 
have  perplexed  his  brain.  But  her  arrival  now, 
her  entrance  into  his  room,  and  her  whole  man- 
ner, brought  back  the  thoughts  which  he  had  be- 
fore with  tenfold  force,  in  such  a  way  that  it  was 
useless  to  struggle  against  them.  He  felt  that 
there  was  a  mystery,  and  that  the  Earl  himself 
not  only  knew  nothing  about  it,  but  could  not 
even  suspect  it.  But  what  was  the  mystery? 
That  he  could  not,  or  perhaps  dared  not,  con- 
jecture. The  vague  thought  which  darted  across 
his  mind  was  one  which  was  madness  to  enter- 
tain.    He  dismissed  it  and  waited. 

At  last  Mrs.  Hart  spoke. 

"Pardon  me.  Sir,"  she  said,  in  a  faint,  low 
voice,  "  for  troubling  you.  I  wished  to  apologize 
for  intruding  upon  you  in  the  morning-room.  I 
did  not  know  you  were  there. " 

She  spoke  abstractedly  and  wearily.  The  Gen- 
eral felt  that  it  was  not  for  this  that  she  had 
thus  visited  him,  but  that  something  more  lay 
behind.  Still  he  answered  her  remark  as  if  he 
took  it  in  good  faith.  He  hastened  to  reassure 
her.  It  was  no  intrusion.  Was  she  not  the 
housekeeper,  and  was  it  not  her  duty  to  go 
there?     What  could  she  mean? 

At  this  she  looked  at  him,  with  a  kind  of  sol- 
emn yet  eager  scrutiny.  "I  was  afraid,"  she 
said,  after  .some  hesitation,  speaking  still  in  a 
dull  monotone,  whose  strangely  sorrowful  ac- 
cents were  marked  and  impressive,  and  in  a  voice 
whose  tone  was  constrained  and  stift',  but  yet  had 
something  in  it  which  deepened  the  General's  per- 
plexity— ' '  I  was  afraid  that  perhaps  you  might 
have  witnessed  some  marks  of  agitation  in  me. 
Pardon  me  for  supposing  that  you  could  have 
troubled  yourself  so  far  as  to  notice  one  like  me; 
.but — but — I — that  is,  I  am  a  little — eccentric; 
and  when  I  suppose  that  1  am  alone  that  eccen- 
tricity is  marked.  I  did  not  know  that  you  were 
in  the  room,  and  so  I  was  thro^vn  off  my  guard." 

Every  word  of  this  singular   being  thrilled 


4 


18 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


■" 


through  tho  Gonernl.  lie  looked  at  her  steadily 
without  Rpeukitii;  tor  some  time.  Ho  tried  to 
force  Ills  memory  to  reveal  what  it  was  that  this 
woman  su^^geHted  to  him,  or  who  it  was  that  she 
iiad  l>cun  nssociutcd  with  in  that  dim  and  siiad- 
owy  ))ast  which  but  lately  ho  had  been  calling 
up.  Her  voice,  too — what  \ras  it  that  it  sug- 
gested ?  That  voice,  in  spite  of  its  constraint, 
was  woeful  and  sad  beyond  all  description.  It 
was  the  voice  of  suft'ering  and  sorrow  too  deep 
for  tears—  that  changeless  monotone  which  makes 
one  tliink  that  the  words  which  uro  spoken  are 
uttered  by  some  machine. 

Her  manner  also  by  this  time  evinced  a  greater 
and  a  deeper  agitation.  Ilor  hands  mechanical- 
ly clasped  each  other  in  a  tight,  convulsive  grasp, 
and  her  slight  frame  trembled  with  irrepressible 
emotion.  There  wis  something  in  her  appear- 
ance, her  attitude,  her  manner,  and  her  voice, 
which  enchained  the  General's  attention,  and 
was  nothing  less  than  fascination.  There  was 
something  yet  to  come,  to  tell  which  had  led  her 
there,  and  these  were  only  preliminaries.  This 
the  General  felt.  Eveiy  word  that  she  spoke 
seemed  to  be  a  mere  forn.ality,  the  ])recursor  of 
tho  real  words  which  she  wished  to  utter.  What 
was  it?  Was  it  her  affection  for  Guy?  Had 
she  come  to  ask  about  the  betrothal  ?  Had  she 
come  to  look  at  Zillah's  portrait?  Had  she 
come  to  remonstrate  with  him  for  arranging  a 
marriage  between  those  who  were  as  yet  little 
more  than  children  ?  But  what  reason  had  she 
for  interfering  in  such  an  affair?  It  was  utterly 
out  of  i)lace  in  one  like  her.  No ;  there  was 
something  else,  he  could  not  conjecture  what. 

All  tliese  thoughts  swept  with  lightning  speed 
through  his  mind,  and  still  the  poiir  stricken  creat- 
ure stood  before  him  with  her  eyes  lowered  and 
her  liiiiuls  clasped,  waiting  for  his  answer.  He 
roused  himself,  and  sougiit  once  more  to  reassure 
her.  lie  told  her  that  he  had  noticed  nothing, 
that  he  had  been  looking  out  of  the  window,  and 
that  in  any  case,  if  he  had,  he  should  have  thought 
nothing  about  it.  This  he  said  in  as  careless  a 
tone  as  possible,  willfully  misstating  facts,  from 
a  generoir  desire  to  spare  her  uneasiness  and 
set  her  mnid  at  rest. 

"Will  you  pardon  me,  Sir,  if  I  intrude  upon 
your  kindness  so  far  as  to  ask  one  more  question  ?" 
.said  the  housekeeper,  after  listening  dreamily  to 
the  General's  w'ords.  "  You  are  going  away,  and 
I  shall  not  have  another  opportunity. " 

"Certainly,"  said  the  General,  looking  at  her 
with  unfeigned  sympathy.  "If  there  is  any  thing 
that  I  can  tell  you  I  shall  be  happy  to  do  so. 
Ask  me,  by  all  means,  any  thing  you  wish." 

"  You  hiid  a  private  interview  with  the  Earl," 
said  she,  with  more  animation  than  she  had  yet 
shown. 

"Yes." 

"Pardon  me,  but  will  you  consider  it  imper- 
tinence if  I  ask  you  whether  it  was  about  your 
])astlife?  I  know  it  is  impertinent ;  but  oh.  Sir,  I 
have  my  reasons. "  Her  voice  changed  suddenly 
to  the  himiblest  and  most  apologetic  accent. 

The  General's  interest  was,  if  ])ossible,  in- 
creased ;  and,  if  there  were  impertinence  in  such 
a  question  from  a  housekeeper,  he  was  too  ex- 
cited to  bo  conscious  of  it.  To  him  this  woman 
seemed  more  than  this. 

"  Wo  «ere  talking  about  the  past,"  said  he, 
kindly.     "We  are  very  old  friends.     We  were 


telling  each  other  the  events  of  our  lives.  Wo 
parted  early  in  life,  and  have  not  .seen  one  an- 
other for  many  years.  We  also  were  arranging 
some  business  matters." 

Mrs.  Hart  listened  eagerly,  and  then  remained 
silent  for  a  long  time. 

"His  old  friend,  "she  murmured  at  last ;  "his 
o'd  friend !     Did  you  find  him  much  altered?" 

"  Not  more  than  I  expected,"  replied  tho  Gen- 
eral, wonderingly.  "His  secluded  life  here  has 
kejjt  him  from  the  wear  and  tear  of  the  world. 
It  has  not  made  him  at  all  misanthropical  or 
even  cynical.  His  heart  is  as  warm  as  ever.  He 
spoke  very  kindly  of  you." 

Mrs.  Hart  started,  and  her  hands  involuntarily 
clutched  each  other  more  convulsively.  Her 
head  fell  forward  and  her  eyes  dropped. 

"What  did  he  say  of  me?"  she  asked,  in  a 
scarce  audible  voice,  and  trembling  visibly  as 
she  spoke. 

The  General  noticed  her  agitation,  but  it  caused 
no  surprise,  for  already  his  whole  power  of  won- 
dering was  e.xhansted.  He  had  a  vague  idea 
that  the  poor  old  thing  was  troubled  for  fear  she 
might  from  some  cause  lose  her  i)lace,  and  wished 
to  know  whether  the  Earl  had  made  any  remarks 
which  might  affect  her  position.  So  with  tiiis  feel- 
ing he  answered  in  as  cheering  a  tone  as  possible : 

"Oh,  I  assure  you,  ho  spoke  of  you  in  the 
highest  terms.  He  told  me  that  you  were  ex- 
ceedingly kind  to  Guy,  and  that  you  were  quite 
indisi)ensable  to  himself." 

"  '  Kind  to  Guy' — '  indispensable  to  him,'  "  she 
repeated  in  low  tones,  while  tears  started  to  her 
eyes.  She  kept  murmin-ing  the  words  abstract- 
edly to  herself,  and  for  a  few  moments  seemed 
quite  unconscious  of  the  General's  ])resence.  He 
still  watched  her,  on  his  part,  and  gradually  the 
thought  arose  within  him  that  the  easiest  solu- 
tion for  all  this  was  possible  insanity.  Insanity, 
he  saw,  would  account  for  every  thing,  and  would 
also  give  some  reason  for  his  own  strange  feelings 
at  the  sight  of  her.  It  was,  he  thought,  because 
he  had  seen  this  dread  sign  of  insanity  in  her 
face — that  sign  only  less  terrible  than  that  dread 
mark  which  is  made  by  the  hand  of  the  King  of 
Terrors.  And  was  she  not  herself  conscious  to 
some  extent  of  this  ?  he  thought.  She  had  her- 
self alluded  to  her  eccentricity.  Was  she  not 
disturbed  by  a  fear  that  he  had  noticed  this,  and, 
dreading  a  disclosure,  had  come  to  liim  to  ex- 
plain ?  To  her  a  stranger  would  be  an  object  of 
suspicion,  against  whom  she  would  feel  it  neces- 
sary to  be  on  her  guard.  The  ])eople  of  the 
house  were  doubtless  accustomed  to  her  ways, 
and  would  think  nothing  of  any  freak,  however 
whimsical ;  but  a  stranger  would  look  with  dif- 
ferent eyes.  Few,  indeed,  were  the  strangers  or 
visitors  who  ever  came  to  Chotwyiule  Castle ;  but 
when  one  did  come  he  woidd  naturally  be  an  ob- 
ject of  suspicion  to  this  poor  soul,  conscious  of 
her  infirmity,  and  struggling  desperately  against 
it.  Such  thoughts  as  these  succeeded  to  the  oth- 
ers which  had  been  passing  through  the  Gener- 
al's mind,  and  he  was  just  beginning  to  think  of 
some  plan  by  which  he  could  soothe  this  poor 
creature,  when  he  was  aware  of  a  movement  on 
her  part  which  made  him  look  up  hastily.  Her 
eyes  were  fastened  on  his.  They  were  large,  lu- 
minous, and  earnest  in  their  gaze,  though  dimmed 
by  the  grief  of  years.  Tears  were  in  them,  and 
the  look  which  they  threw  toward  him  was  full 


.  •,.  Mi 


TIIK  CUYPT()(iUAM. 


19 


of  agony  and  earnest  supplication.  That  ema- 
ciated face,  that  snow-white  hair,,  that  brow 
marked  by  the  lines  of  suffering,  that  slight 
figure  with  its  sombre  vestments,  all  formed  a 
sight  which  would  have  imj)ressed  any  man. 
The  General  was  so  astonished  that  he  sat  mo- 
tionless, wondering  what  it  was  now  that  the  dis- 
etised  fancy  of  one  whom  he  still  believed  to  be 


insane  would  suggest.  It  was  to  him  that  she 
was  looking;  it  was  to  him  that  her  shriveled 
hands  were  outstretched.  What  could  she  want 
with  him? 

fShe  drew  nearer  to  him  while  he  sat  thus  won- 
dering. She  stooped  forward  and  downward, 
with  her  eyes  still  fixed  on  his.  He  did  not 
move,  but  watched  her  in  amazement.     Again 


se 


THE  CUYl'TOGRAM. 


I 


tliiit  l)i<it)K)it  which  tlic  fiiglit  of  lier  had  at  flret 
Huggestod  came  to  him.  Attain  liu  thrust  it 
awiiy.  Hut  the  woman,  with  u  low  moan,  8nd- 
denly  flung  hei'HcIt'  on  tiiu  floor  i)uforu  him,  and 
rcaciiiiig  out  hur  liundH  claHpcd  hin  feut,  and  ho 
felt  her  feuhle  frame  all  nhaken  hy  Hobs  and  Hhud- 
derd.  He  sat  Hpell-bound.  Ho  looked  at  lior 
for  ii  moment  aghiiHt.  Tlien  he  reached  forth 
hiri  hands,  and  without  speaking  n  wor<l  took 
hers,  and  tiied  to  lilt  her  up.  tSlie  let  herself  be 
raised  till  she  was  on  her  knees,  and  then  raifted 
her  head  once  more.  She  gave  him  an  inde- 
scribable look,  and  in  a  low  voice,  which  was  lit- 
tle above  a  whisper,  but  which  penetrated  to  the 
very  depths  of  his  soul,  pronounced  one  single 
solitary  word, . 

The  (Jeneral  heard  it.  His  face  grew  oa  pale 
and  as  rigid  as  the  face  of  n  corpse ;  the  blood 
seemed  to  leave  his  heart ;  his  lips  grow  white ; 
he  dropped  her  hands,  and  sat  regarding  her  with 
eyes  in  which  there  was  nothing  less  than  horror. 
The  woman  saw  it,  and  once  more  fell  with  a 
low  moan  to  the  floor. 

"  My  (lod !"  groaned  the  General  at  last,  and 
said  'lot  another  word,  but  sat  rigid  and  mute 
while  the  woman  lay  on  the  floor  at  his  feet. 
The  horror  which  that  word  had  caused  for  some 
time  overmiistered  him,  and  he  sat  staring  va- 
cantly. Hut  the  horror  was  not  against  the  wo- 
man who  had  called  it  up,  and  who  lay  prostrate 
before  him.  She  could  not  have  been  personal- 
ly abhorrent,  for  in  a  few  minutes,  with  a  start, 
he  noticed  her  once  more,  and  his  face  was  over- 
8|)read  by  an  anguish  of  pity  and  sympathy,  lie 
raised  her  up,  he  led  her  to  a  couch,  and  made 
her  sit  down,  and  then  sat  in  silence  before  her 
with  his  face  buried  in  his  hands.  She  reclined 
on  the  couch  with  her  countenance  turned  to- 
ward him,  trembling  still,  and  panting  for  breath, 
with  her  risht  hand  under  her  face,  and  her  left 
pressed  tightly  against  her  heart.  At  times  she 
looked  at  the  (Jeneral  with  mournful  inquiry, 
and  seemed  to  be  patiently  waiting  for  him  to 
speak.  An  hour  passed  in  silence.  The  Gen- 
eral seemed  to  be  struggling  with  recollections 
that  overwhelmed  him.  At  last  he  raised  his 
head,  and  regarded  her  in  solemn  silence,  and 
still  his  face  and  his  eyes  bore  that  expression  of 
unutterable  pity  and  sympathy  which  dwelt  there, 
when  he  raised  her  from  the  floor. 

After  a  time  he  addressed  her  in  a  low  voice, 
the  tones  of  which  were  tender  and  full  of  sad- 
ness. She  replied,  and  a  conversation  followed 
which  lasted  for  hours.  It  involved  things  of 
fearful  moment — crime,  sin,  shame,  the  perfidy 
of  traitors,  the  devotion  of  faithful  ones,  the  sharp 
pang  of  injured  love,  the  long  anguish  of  despair, 
the  deathless  fidelity  of  devoted  att'ection.  But 
the  report  of  this  conversation  and  the  recital  of 
these  things  do  not  belong  to  this  place.  It  is 
enough  to  say  that  when  at  last  Mrs.  Hart  arose  it 
was  with  a  serener  face  and  a  steadier  step  than 
had  been  seen  in  her  for  yeni'. 

That  night  the  General  did  not  close  his  eyes. 
His  friend,  his  business,  even  his  daughter,  all 
were  forgotten,  as  though  his  soul  were  over- 
whelmed and  crushed  by  the  weight  of  some 
tremendous  revelation. 


CHAPTER  V. 

THB   FUTUUE   BRIDE. 

It  had  been  arranged  that  Guy  should  accom- 
pany (ieneral  Pomeroy  up  to  London,  partly  for 
the  sake  of  arranging  about  the  matters  relat- 
ing to  the  Chetwynde  estates,  and  partly  for 
the  purpose  of  seeing  the  one  who  was  some  day 
to  be  Ids  wife.  Lord  Chetwynde  was  unable 
to  undergo  the  fatigue  of  traveling,  and  had  to 
leave  every  thing  to  his  lawyers  and  Guy. 

At  the  close  of  a  wearisome  day  in  the  train 
they  reached  London,  and  drove  at  once  to  the 
General's  lodgings  in  Great  James  Street.  Thi; 
door  was  opened  by  a  tall,  swarthy  woman,  whose 
Indian  nationality  was  made  manifest  by  the 
gay-colored  turban  which  surmounted  her  head, 
as  well  as  by  her  face  and  figure.  At  the  sight 
of  the  General  she  burst  6ut  into  exck  -^tions 
of joy. 

"Welcome  home,  sahib;  welcome  home!" 
she  cried.  "Little  missy,  her  fret  much  after 
you." 

"I  am  sorry  for  that,  nurse,"  said  the  Gen- 
eral, kindly. 

As  he  was  speaking  they  were  startled  by  a 
piercing  scream  from  an  adjoining  apartment, 
followed  by  a  shrill  voice  uttering  some  words 
which  ended  in  a  shriek.  The  General  eitered 
the  house,  and  hastened  to  the  room  from  v.  hicli 
the  sounds  proceeded,  and  Guy  followed  him. 
The  uproar  was  speedily  accoimted  for  by  the 
tableau  which  presented  itself  on  opening  the 
door.  It  was  a  tableau  extremely  vivant,  and 
represented  a  small  girl,  with  violent  gesticula- 
tions, in  the  act  of  rejecting  a  dainty  little  meal 
which  a  maid,  who  stood  by  her  with  a  tray,  was 
vainly  endeavoring  to  induce  her  to  accept.  The 
young  lady's  arguments  were  too  forcible  to  ad- 
mit of  gainsaying,  for  the  servant  did  not  dare  to 


T 
I 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


21 


vpntiire  witfiin  rcnrli  "f  oitlier  the  Imnds  or  feet 
of  licr  sriuill  liiit  vi){oi()iis  (iiiponciU.  Tlio  pics- 
cni'u  of  tlie  tray  preventeil  lier  from  (lefcniling 
herself  in  iiny  wny,  iiiiil  nIks  whs  about  rctiriiiK, 
worsted,  from  tlie  eiicoiiiiter,  wlien  the  entrance 
of  tlie  gentlemen  gave  u  new  turn  to  the  position 
of  nffuirs.  The  child  Haw  lliem  at  once;  her 
Hcreatns  of  rage  changed  into  u  cry  of  joy,  and 
the  face  which  had  been  distorted  witli  i)a,ssion 
suddenly  became  radiant  with  <lelight. 

"  I'apa  !  papa  !"  hIio  cried,  and,  springing  for- 
ward, slie  darted  to  his  embrace,  and  tw  ined  her 
arms  about  his  neck  with  a  sob  which  her  joy 
had  wrung  from  her. 

"  Darling  i)apa  !"  she  cried  ;  "  I  thought  you 
were  never  coming  back.  How  could  you  leave 
me  so  long  alone?"  and,  saying  this,  she  burst 
into  a  ]>assiou  of  tears,  while  her  father  in  vain 
tried  to  soothe  her. 

At  this  strange  revelation  of  the  General's 
daughter  Guy  stood  per|)lexed  aiul  wondering. 
(Certainly  he  had  not  been  prepared  for  this.  His 
Jiniiree  was  undoubtedly  of  a  soniewhat  stormy 
nature,  and  in  the  midst  of  his  bewilderment  he 
was  conscious  of  feeling  dee]ily  reconciled  to  her 
ten  years. 

At  length  her  father  succeeded  in  quieting 
her,  and,  taking  her  arms  from  his  neck,  he 
placed  her  on  his  knee,  and  said  : 

"My  darling,  here  is  a  gentleman  waiting  all 
this  time  to  speak  to  you.  (^ome,  go  over  to  him 
and  shake  hands  with  him." 

At  this  the  child  turned  her  large  black  eyes 
on  Guy,  and  scanned  him  superciliously  from 
head  to  foot.  The  result  seemed  to  satisfy  her, 
for  she  advanced  a  few  steps  to  take  the  hand 
which  he  had  smilingly  held  out;  but  a  thought 
seemed  suddenly  to  strike  her  which  arrested  her 
progress  half-way. 

"  Did  /le  keep  yon,  papa?"  she  said,  ahin]itly, 
while  a  jerk  of  her  head  in  Guy'sdirectiou  signified 
the  proper  noun  to  which  the  pronoun  referred. 

"  He  had  something  to  do  with  it,"  answered 
her  father,  with  a  smile. 

"Then  I  sha'n't  shoke  hands  with  him,"  she 
said,  resolutely ;  and,  putting  the  aforesaid  ap- 
jiendnges  behind  her  back  to  prevent  any  forci- 
l)le  appropriation  of  them,  she  hurried  away,  and 
damliered  up  on  her  father's  knee.  The  Gen- 
eral, knowing  jirobably  by  painful  experience 
the  futility  of  trying  to  combat  any  determina- 
lion  of  this  very  decided  young  lady,  did  not  at- 
tempt to  make  any  remonstrance,  but  allowed  her 
to  establish  herself  in  her  accustomed  position. 
During  this  process  Guy  had  leisure  to  inspect 
her.  This  he  did  without  nni/  feeling  of  the  im- 
mense importance  of  this  child's  character  to  his 
own  future  life,  without  thinking  that  this  little 
creature  r.ii^ht  be  destined  to  raise  him  tip  to 
heaven  or  thrust  him  down  to  hell,  but  only  with 
the  idle,  critical  view  of  an  uninterested  specta- 
tor. Guy  was,  in  fact,  too  young  to  estimate  the 
future,  and  things  which  were  connected  with 
that  future,  at  their  right  value.  He  was  little 
more  than  a  boy,  and  so  he  looked  with  a  boy's 
eyes  upon  this  singular  child. 

She  struck  him  as  the  oddest  little  mortal  that 
he  had  ever  come  across.  She  wn=  vety  tiny, 
not  taller  than  many  children  of  eight,  and  so 
slight  and  fragile  that  she  looked  as  if  a  breath 
might  blow  her  away.  But  if  in  figure  she  looked 
eight,  in  foce  she  looked  fifty.    In  that  face  there 


was  no  childiMhnesH  whatev  r  It  wan  a  thin, 
peaked,  sallow  face,  with  a  discfjiitentod  expres- 
sion ;  her  features  were  siiudl  and  pinched  ,  liei- 
hair,  which  was  of  inky  blackness,  fell  on  her 
shoulders  in  long,  straight  locks,  without  a  rip- 
ple or  a  wave  in  them.  She  looked  like  an  elf, 
but  still  this  elfish  little  creature  was  redeemed 
from  the  hideousness  which  else  might  have  been 
her  <loom  by  eyes  of  the  most  wonderful  brill- 
iancy. Large,  luminous,  |iotent  eyes — intensely 
black,  and  <leep  as  the  depths  of  ocean,  they 
seemed  to  till  her  whole  face ;  and  in  moments 
of  excitement  they  could  light  up  with  volcanic 
fires,  revealing  the  intensity  of  that  nature  which 
lay  beneath.  In  repose  they  were  unfathoma- 
ble, and  defied  all  cor'^cture  us  to  what  their 
possessor  might  devek,,  into. 

All  this  (iuy  noticed,  as  far  as  was  iiossiblo  to 
one  so  young  and  inexperienced ;  and  the  gen- 
eral result  of  this  survey  was  a  state  of  l)ewildor- 
ment  and  perplexity.  He  could  not  make  her 
out.  She  was  a  ])U/.zlo  to  him,  and  certainly  not 
a  very  attractive  one. 

When  she  had  finally  adjusted  herself  on  her 
father's  knee,  the  General,  after  the  fashion  of 
parents  from  time  immemorial,  asked  : 

"  Has  my  d.  Hug  been  a  good  child  since 
papa  has  been  away  ?" 

The  question  may  have  been  a  stereotyped 
one.  Not  so  the  answer,  which  came  out  full 
and  decided,  in  a  tone  free  alike  from  penitence 
or  bravado,  but  giving  only  a  simple  statement 
of  facts. 

"  No,"  she  said,  "I  have  not  been  a  good 
girl.  I've  been  very  naughty  indeed.  I  haven't 
minded  any  thing  that  was  said  to  me.  I 
scmtched  the  ayah,  and  kicked  Surah.  I  bit 
Surah  too.  Besides,  I  spilt  my  ri^'e  and  milk, 
and  broke  the  plates,  and  I  was  just  going  to 
starve  myself  to  death." 

At  this  recital  of  childish  enormities,  wifh  its 
tragical  ending,  Guy  burst  mto  a  loud  laugh. 
The  child  raised  herself  from  her  father's  shoul- 
der, and,  fixing  her  large  eyes  upon  him,  said 
slowly,  and  with  set  teeth: 

"i  hate  you!" 

She  looked  so  uncanny  as  she  said  this,  and 
the  ex])ression  of  her  eyes  was  so  intense  in  its 
malignity,  that  Guy  absolutely  started. 

"  Hush,"  exclaimed  her  father,  more  peremp 
torily  than  usual ;   "yon  must  not  be  so  rude." 

As  he  spoke  she  again  looked  at  Guy,  with  a 
vindictive  expression,  but  did  not  deign  to  speak. 
The  face  seemed  to  him  to  be  utterly  diabolical 
and  detestable.  She  looked  at  him  for  a  mo- 
ment, and  then  her  head  sank  down  upon  her 
father's  shoulder. 

The  General  now  made  an  effort  to  turn  the 
conversation  to  where  it  had  left  off,  and  revert- 
ing to  Zillah's  confession  he  said  . 

"  I  thought  my  little  girl  ne^  er  broke  her  word, 
and  that  when  she  promised  to  be  good  while  I 
was  away,  I  could  depend  '-""n  her  being  so." 

This  reproach  seemed  touch  her.  She 
sprang  up  instantly  and  exclaimed,  in  vehement 
tones : 

"It  was  you  who  broke  your  promise  to  me. 
You  said  you  would  come  back  in  two  days,  and 
you  staid  four.  I  did  keep  my  word.  I  was 
good  the  first  two  days.  Ask  the  ayah.  When 
I  found  that  you  had  deceived  me,  tlien  I  did 
not  care." 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


I     I 


i     1 


"  But  you  should  have  trusted  me,  my  child," 
said  the  General,  in  a  tone  of  mild  rebuke. 
"You  should  have  known  that  I  must  have  had 
some  good  reason  for  disappointing  yon.  I  had 
very  important  business  to  attend  to— business, 
darling,  which  very  nearly  aH'ects  your  happi- 
ness.    iSome  day  you  shall  hear  about  it." 

"But  I  don't  want  to  hear  about  any  thing 
that  will  keep  you  away  from  me,"  said  Zilluh, 
peevishly.     "Promise  never  to  leave  me  again." 

"Not  if  I  can  help  it,  my  child,"  said  the 
General,  kissing  her  fondly. 

"  No  ;  but  promise  that  you  won't  at  all,"  per- 
sisted Zillah.  "Promise  never  to  leave  me  at 
all.  Promise,  promise,  papa;  promise — prom- 
ise." 

"Well,"  said  the  General,  "I'll  promise  to 
take  you  with  me  the  next  time.  That  wi!l  do, 
won't  it?" 

"But  I  don't  want  to  go  away,"  said  this  sweet 
child;   "and  I  won't  go  away." 

The  General  gave  a  despairing  glance  at  Guy, 
who  he  knew  was  a  spectator  of  this  scene.  He 
felt  a  vague  desire  to  get  Guy  alone  so  as  to  ex- 
plain to  liim  that  this  was  only  occasional  and 
accidental,  and  that  Zillah  was  really  one  of  I'le 
sweetest  and  most  angelic  children  that  ever 
were  born.  Nor  would  this  good  General  have 
consciously  violated  the  truth  in  saying  so ;  for 
in  his  heart  of  hearts  he  believed  all  this  of  his 
loved  but  sadly  spoiled  child.  The  opportunity 
for  such  explanations  did  not  occur,  however, 
and  the  General  had  the  painful  consciousness 
that  Guy  was  seeing  his  future  liride  under  some- 
what disadvantageous  circumstances.  IStill  he 
trusted  that  the  affectionate  nature  of  Zillah 
woidd  reveal  itself  to  Guy,  and  make  a  deep  im- 
pression upon  him. 

While  such  thoughts  as  these  were  passing 
through  his  mind,  and  others  of  a  very  varied 
nature  were  occurring  to  Guy,  the  maid  Sarah 
arrived  to  take  her  young  charge  to  bed.  The 
attempt  to  do  so  roused  Zillah  to  the  most  act- 
ive resistance.  She  had  made  up  her  mind  not 
to  yield.  "I  won't,"  she  cried— "I  won't  go 
to  bed.  I  will  never  go  away  from  papa  a  single 
instant  imtil  that  horrid  man  is  gone.  I  know 
he  will  take  you  away  again,  and  I  hate  him. 
Why  don't  you  make  him  go,  papa?" 

At  tliis  remark,  which  was  so  flattering  to 
Guy,  the  General  made  a  fresh  effort  to  appease 
his  daughter,  but  with  no  better  success  than 
before.  Children  and  fools,  says  the  proverb, 
speak  the  truth  ;  and  the  truth  which  was  spoken 
in  this  instance  was  hot  very  agreeable  to  the 
visitor  at  whom  it  was  flung.  But  Guy  looked 
on  with  a  smile,  and  nothing  in  his  face  gave  any 
sign  of  the  feelings  that  he  might  have.  He  cer- 
tainly had  not  been  prepared  for  any  approach 
to  any  thing  of  this  sort.  On  the  journey  the 
General  had  alluded  so  often  to  that  daughter, 
who  was  always  uppermost  in  his  mind,  that 
Guy  had  expected  an  outburst  of  rapturous  af- 
fection from  her.  Had  he  been  passed  by  un- 
noticed, he  would  liave  thought  nothing  of  it ; 
but  the  malignancy  of  her  look,  and  the  venom 
of  her  words,  startled  him,  yet  he  was  too  good- 
hearted  and  considerate  to  exhibit  any  feeling 
whatever. 

Sarah's  effort  to  take  Zillah  away  had  result- 
ad  in  such  a  complete  failure  that  she  retired 
discomfited,  and  there  was  rather  an  awkward 


j  period,  in  which  the  General  made  a  faint  effort 

i  to  induce  his  daughter  to  sav  something  c'vil  to 

I  Guy.     This,  however,  was  another  failure,  and 

in  a  sort  of  mild  despair  he  resigned  himself  to 

her  wayward  humor. 

At  last  dinner  was  announced.  Zillah  stili  re- 
fused to  leave  her  father,  so  that  he  was  obliged, 
greatly  to  his  own  discomfort,  to  keep  her  on 
his  knee  during  the  meal.  When  the  soup  am! 
(ish  were  going  on  she  was  comparatively  quiet ; 
but  at  the  first  symptoms  of  entre'es  she  'oecame 
restive,  and  popping  up  her  quaint  little  head  to 
a  level  with  the  table,  she  eyed  the  edibles  ivith  the 
air  of  an  habitue'  at  the  Lord  Mayor's  banquet. 
Kaviole  was  handed  round.  This  broi  ght  mat- 
ters to  a  crisis. 

"A  plate  and  a  fork  for  me,  Thomas,"  she 
ordered,  imperiously. 

"But,  my  darling,"  remonstrated  her  fa- 
ther, "this  is  much  too  rich  for  you  so  late  at 
night." 

"I  like  kaviole,"  was  her  simple  reply,  given 
with  the  air  of  one  who  is  presenting  an  unan- 
swerable argument,  and  so  indeed  it  proved  to 
be. 

This  latter  scene  was  re-enacted,  with  but  small 
variations,  whenever  any  thing  appeared  which 
met  with  her  ladyship's  approval;  and  Guy  found 
that  in  spite  of  her  youth  she  was  a  decided  con- 
noisseur in  the  delicacies  of  the  t.')ble.  Now,  to 
tell  the  truth,  he  was  not  at  all  fond  of  chil- 
dren ;  but  this  one  excited  in  him  a  nositive  hor- 
ror. There  seemed  to  be  soraething  in  her 
weird  and  uncanny;  and  he  found  himself  con- 
stantly speculating  as  to  how  he  c(>uld  ever  be- 
come reconciled  to  her ;  or  what  changes  fu- 
ture years  could  make  in  her ;  and  whether 
the  lapse  of  time  could  by  any  possibility  devel- 
op this  impish  being  into  any  sort  of  a  present- 
able woman.  From  the  moment  that  he  saw 
her  he  felt  that  the  question  of  beauty  must  he 
abandoned  forever ;  it  would  be  enough  if  she 
j  could  prove  to  be  one  with  whom  a  man  might 
live  with  any  degree  of  domestic  comfort.  But 
the  prospect  of  taking  her  at  some  period  in  the 
fu'  ire  to  preside  over  Chetwynde  Castle  filled 
him  with  complete  dismay.  He  now  began  to 
realize  what  his  father  had  faintly  suggested — 
nftmely,  that  his  part  of  the  agreement  might 
hereafter  prove  a  sacrifice.  The  prospect  cer- 
tainly looked  dark,  and  for  a  short  time  he  felt 
somewhat  downcast;  but  he  was  yoimg  and 
hopeful,  and  in  the  end  he  put  all  these  thoughts 
from  him  as  in  some  sort  treachei  ^us  to  his  kind 
old  friend,  a«d  made  a  resolute  determination, 
in  spite  of  fate,  to  keep  his  vow  with  him. 

After  anticipating  the  dessert,  and  preventing 
her  father  from  taking  cheese,  on  the  ground 
that  she  did  not  like  it,  nature  at  last  took  pity 
on  that  nuch  enduring  and  long  suffering  man, 
and  threw  over  the  daughter  the  mantle  of  sweet 
unconsciousness.  Miss  Pomeroy  fell  asleep.  In 
that  helpless  condition  she  was  quietly  conveyed 
from  her  father's  arms  to  bed,  to  the  unspeak- 
able relief  of  Guy,  who  felt,  as  the  door  closed, 
as  if  a  fearful  incubus  had  been  removed. 

On  the  following  morning  he  started  hj  an 
early  train  for  Dublin,  so  that  on  this  occasion 
he  had  no  further  opportunity  of  improving  hi(> 
acquaintance  with  his  lovely  "bride.  Need  it  be 
said  that  the  loss  was  not  regretted  by  the  futin-e 
husband  ? 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


23 


CHAPTER  VI. 

TWO   IMPORTANT   CHARACTERS. 

About  five  years  passed  away  since  the 
events  narrated  in  tiie  last  chapter.  The  Gen- 
eral's household  had  left  their  London  lodgings 
not  long  after  Guy's  visit,  and  had  removed  to 
the  family  seat  ut  Pomeroy  Court,  where  they 
had  remained  ever  since.  Du'ing  these  years 
Guy  had  been  living  the  life  common  with  young 
officers,  moving  about  from  place  to  place,  going 
sometimes  on  a  visit  to  his  father,  and,  on  the 
whole,  extracting  an  uncommonly  large  amount 
of  enjoyment  out  of  life.  The  memory  of  his 
betrothal  never  troubled  him  ;  he  fortunately  es- 
caped any  affair  of  the  heart  more  serious  than 
an  idle  flirtation  in  a  garrison  town ;  the  odd 
scene  of  his  visit  to  General  Pomeroy "s  lodgings 
soon  faded  into  the  remote  past;  and  the  pro- 
jected marriage  was  banished  in  his  mind  to  the 
dim  shades  of  a  remote  future.  As  for  the  two  j 
old  men,  they  only  met  once  or  twice  in  all 
these  years.  General  Pomeroy  could  not  man-  \ 
age  very  well  to  leave  his  daughter,  and  Lord  i 
Chetwynde's  health  did  not  allow  him  to  visit 
Pomeroy.  He  often  urged  the  General  to  bring 
Zillah  with  him  to  Chetwynde  Castle,  but  this 
the  young  lady  positively  refused  to  consent  to. 
Nor  did  the  General  himself  care  particularly 
about  taking  her  there. 

Pomeroy  Court  was  a  fine  old  mansion,  with 
no  pretensions  to  grandeur,  but  full  of  that  solid 
comfort  which  characterizes  so  many  country 
lionses  of  England.  It  was  irregular  in  shape, 
and  belonged  to  different  periods ;  the  main 
bailding  being  Elizabethan,  from  which  there 
projected  an  addition  in  that  stiff  Dutch  siyle 
which  William  and  Mary  introduced.     A  wide, 


well-timbered  park  surrounded  it,  beyond  which 
lay  the  village  of  Pomeroy. 

One  morning  in  June,  1856,  a  man  came  up 
the  avenue  and  entered  the  hall.  He  was  of 
medium  size,  with  short  light  hair,  low  brow, 
light  eyes,  and  thin  face,  and  he  carried  a  scroll 
of  music  in  his  hand.  He  entered  the  hall  with 
the  air  of  an  habitue',  and  proceeded  to  the  south 
parlor.  Here  his  attention  was  at  once  arrested 
i)y  a  figure  standing  by  one  of  the  windows.  It 
was  a  young  girl,  slender  and  graceful  in  form, 
dressed  in  black,  with  masses  of  heavy  black 
hair  coiled  up  behind  her  head.  Her  back  was 
turned  toward  him,  and  he  stood  in  silence  for 
some  time  looking  toward  her. 

At  last  he  spoke :   "  Miss  Krieff— " 

The  one  called  Miss  Krieff  turned  and  said,  in 
an  indifferent  monotone:  "Good-morning,  Mr. 
Gualtier." 

Turning  thus  she  showed  a  face  which  had  in 
it  nothing  whatever  of  the  English  type — a  dark 
olive  complexion,  almost  swarthy,  in  fact ;  thick, 
luxuriant  black  hair,  eyes  intensely  black  and 
piercingly  lustrous,  retreating  chin,  and  retreat- 
ing narrow  forehead.  In  that  face,  with  its  in- 
tense eyes,  there  was  the  possibility  of  rare  charm 
and  fascination,  and  beauty  of  a  very  unusual 
kind ;  but  at  the  present  moment,  as  she  looked 
carelessly  and  almost  sullenly  at  her  visitor,  there 
was  something  repellent. 

"  Where  is  Miss  Pomeroy?"  asked  Gualtier. 

"  About,  somewhere,"  answered  Miss  Krieff, 
shortly. 

"  Will  she  not  play  to-day  ?" 

"I  think  not." 

"Why?" 

"The  usual  cause." 

"What?" 

"Tantrums,"  said  Miss  Krieff. 

"  It  is  a  pity,"  said  Gualtier,  dryly,  "that  she 
is  so  irregular  in  her  lessons.  She  will  never 
advance." 

"The  idea  of  her  ev.>.r  pretending  to  take  les- 
sons of  any  body  in  an  •  thing  is  absurd,"  said 
Miss  Krieff.  "  Besides,  it  is  as  much  as  a  teach- 
er's life  is  worth.  You  vill  certainly  leave  the 
house  some  day  Avith  a  br.>ken  head." 

Gualtier  smiled,  showin,,;  a  set  of  large  yellow 
teeth,  and  his  small  light  eyes  twinkled. 

"It  is  nothing  for  me,  bi  1 1  sometimes  think 
it  must  be  hard  for  you,  M.  ss  Krieff,"  said  he, 
insinuatingly. 

"Hard!"  she  repeated,  an.'  her  eyes  flashed 
as  shR  glanced  at  Gualtier ;  but  in  an  instant  it 
passed,  and  she  answered  in  a  soft,  stealthy 
voice  :  "  Oh  yes,  it  is  hard  sometimes ;  but  then 
depeiidents  have  no  right  to  complain  of  the 
whims  of  their  superiors  and  benefactors,  you 
know." 

Gualtier  said  nothing,  but  seemed  to  wait  fur- 
ther disclosures.  After  a  time  Miss  Krieff  look- 
ed up,  and  surveyed  him  with  her  penetrating 
gaze. 

' '  You  must  have  a  great  deal  to  bear,  I  think," 
said  he  at  last. 

"  Have  you  observed  it?"  she  asked. 

"Am  I  not  Miss  Pomeroy's  tutor?  How 
can  1  help  obser\'ing  it  ?"  was  the  reply. 

"  Have  I  ever  acted  as  though  I  wua  dissatis- 
fied or  discontented,  or  did  you  ever  see  any 
thing  in  me  which  would  lead  you  to  suppose 
that  I  was  otherwise  than  contented  ?" 


24 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


"You  are  generally  regarded  as  a  model  of 
good-naturo,"  said  Gmvltier,  in  a  cautions,  non- 
coamittiil  tone.  "Why  should  I  think  otlK'r- 
wise  ?  .  They  say  that  no  one  but  you  could  live 
witli  Miss  I'oineroy." 

Miss  Krie.'V  looked  away,  and  a  stealthy  smile 
crept  over  her  t'eutnies. 

■'Good-nature!"  she  murmured.  A  laugh 
that  sounded  almost  like  a  sob  escaped  her.  ISi- 
!eiK'e  followed,  and  Gualtier  sat  looking  abstract- 
edly at  his  sheet  of  music. 

"How  do  you  like  the  General?"  he  asked, 
abruptly. 

"How  could  I  help  loving  Miss  Pomeroy's 
father?"  replied  Miss  Krieff,  witii  the  old  stealthy 
smile  reapjiearing. 

"Is  he  not  just  and  honorable  ?" 

"  Both — more  too — he  is  generous  and  tender. 
He  is  above  all  a  fond  father ;  so  fond, "  she  add- 
ed, with  something  like  a  sneer,  "that  all  his 
justice,  his  tenderness,  and  his  generosity  are  ex- 
erted for  the  exclusive  benefit  of  that  darling 
child  on  whom  he  dotes.  I  assure  you,  you  can 
have  no  idea  how  touching  it  is  to  see  them  to- 
gether. " 

*'  Do  you  often  feel  this  tenderness  toward 
them  ?"  asked  Gualtier,  turning  his  thin  sallow 
face  toward  her. 

"Always,"  said  Miss  Krieff,  slowly.  She 
rose  from  her  chair,  where  she  had  taken  her 
seat,  and  looked  fixedly  at  him  for  some  time 
without  one  word. 

"You  appear  to  be  interested  in  this  family," 
said  she  at  length.  Gualtier  looked  at  her  for 
a  moment — then  his  eyes  fell. 

"How  can  I  be  otherwise  than  interested  in 
oae  like  you  ?"  he  murmured. 

"The  General  befriended  you.  He  found 
you  in  London,  and  offered  you  a  large  salary 
to  teach  his  daughter." 

"The  General  was  very  kind,  and  is  so  still." 

Miss  Krieff  paused,  and  looked  at  liim  with 
keen  and  vigilant  scrutiny. 

"Would  you  be  shocked,"  she  asked  at 
length,  "if  you  were  to  hear  that  tha  General 
had  an  enemy  ?" 

"That  would  altogether  depend  upon,  who  the 
enemy  might  be. " 

"An  enemy,"  continued  Miss  Krieff,  with 
intense  bitterness  of  tone — "in  his  own  fam- 
ily?" 

"That  would  be  strange," said  Gualtier ;  "but 
I  can  imagine  an  enemy  with  whom  I  would  not 
be  offended. " 

"  What  would  you  think,"  asked  Miss- Krieff, 
after  another  pause,  during  -.vhioh  her  keen 
scrutinizing  gaze  was  fixed  on  Gualtier,  ' '  if  that 
enemy  had  for  years  been  «n  the  watch,  and  un- 
der a  thin  veil  of  good-natin-e  had  concealed  the 
most  vengeful  feelings?  What  would  you  say 
if  that  enemy  had  grown  so  malignant  that  only 
one  desire  remained,  and  that  was — to  do  some 
injury  in  some  way  to  General  Pomeroy?" 

"  You  must  tell  me  more,"  said  Gualtier,  "be- 
fore I  answer.  I  am  fully  capable  of  under- 
standing all  that  hate  may  desire  or  accomplish. 
But  has  this  enemy  of  whom  you  speak  done 
any  thing?  Has  she  found  out  any  thing?  Has 
she  ever  discovered  any  way  in  which  her  hate 
may  be  gratified  ?" 

"  You  seem  to  take  it  for  granted  that  his  en- 
emy is  a  woman!" 


"Of  course." 

"Well,  then,  I  will  answer  yon.  She  Imn 
fotnid  out  £>mftthing — or,  rather,  she  is  in  the 
way  toward  finding  out  something — which  may 
yet  enable  her  to  gratify  her  desires. " 

"  Have  you  any  objections  to  tell  what  that 
may  be?"  asked  Gualtier. 

Miss  Kriett'  said  nothing  for  some  time,  dur- 
ing which  each  looked  earnestly  at  the  other. 

"No,"  said  she  at  last. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  It  is  something  that  I  have  found  among 
the  General's  papers,"  said  she,  in  a  low  voice. 

"You  have  examined  the  General's  papers, 
then  ?" 

"What  I  said  implied  that  much,  I  believe," 
said  Miss  Kriefll",  coolly. 

"  And  what  is  it  ?" 

"  A  certain  mysterious  document." 

"  Mysterious  document?"  repeated  Gualtier. 

"Yes." 

"What?" 

"It  is  a  writing  in  cipher." 

"And  you  have  made  it  out?" 

"No,  I  have  not." 

"  Of  what  use  is  it,  then  ?" 

"  I  think  it  may  be  of  some  importance,  or  it 
would  not  have  been  kept  where  it  was,  and  it 
would  not  have  been  written  in  cipher." 

"  What  can  you  do  with  it  ?"  asked  Gualtier, 
after  some  silence. 

"  I  do  not  yet  see  what  I  can  do  with  it,  but 
others  may." 

"What  others?" 

"I  hope  to  find  some  friend  who  may  hnve 
more  skill  in  cryptography  than  I  have,  and  may 
be  able  to  decipher  it. " 

"Can  you  not  decipher  it  at  nil?" 

"Only  in  part." 

"  And  what  is  it  that  you  have  found  out?" 

"  I  will  tell  you  some  other  time,  perhaps." 

"  You  object  to  tell  me  now  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  When  will  you  tell  me?" 

"  When  we  are  better  acquainted." 

"Are  we  not  pretty  well  acquainted  now?" 

"Not 'SO  well  as  I  hope  we  shall  be  here- 
after. " 

"I  shall  wait  most  patiently,  then,"  said  Gual- 
tier, earnestly,  "  til'  our  increased  intimacy  shall 
give  me  some  more  of  your  confidence.  But 
might  you  not  give  me  some  general  idea  of  that 
which  you  think  you  have  discovered  ?" 

Miss  Krieff  hesitated. 

"Do  not  let  me  force  myself  into  your  confi- 
dence," said  Gualtier. 

"No,"  said  Miss  Krieff,  in  that  cold,  repel- 
lent manner  which  she  could  so  easily  assume. 
'  •  There  is  no  danger  of  that.  But  I  have  no 
objection  to  tell  you  what  seems  to  me  to  bo 
the  general  meaning  of  that  which  I  have  deci- 
phered." 

"What  is  it?" 

"  As  far  as  I  can  see,"  said  Miss  Krieff,  "it 
charges  (ieneral  Pomeroy  with  atrocious  crimes, 
and  implicates  him  in  one  in  particular,  the  knowl- 
edge of  which,  if  it  be  really  so,  can  be  used  against 
him  with  terrible— yes,  fatal  efi'ect.  I  now  can 
understand  very  easily  why  he  was  so  strangely 
and  frantically  eager  to  betroth  bis  child  to  the 
son  of  Lord  Chetwynde — why  he  trampled  on  all 
decency,  and  bound  his  own  daughter,  little  more 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


2S 


tlian  a  baby,  to  a  stranger — why  he  purchased 
(.luy  Molyiieiix,  body  and  soul,  for  money.  AP 
is  plaiii  from  this.  But,  after  nil,  it  is  a  puzzle. 
He  makes  so  high  a  profession  of  honor  that  if 
his  profession  were  real  he  would  have  thought 
of  a  betrothal  any  where  except  t/iere.  Oh,  if 
Lord  Chetwynde  only  had  the  faintest  concep- 
tion of  this!" 

"Bat  what  is  it?"  cried  Gualtier,  with  eager 
curiosity,  which  was  stimulated  to  the  utmost  by 
Miss  Krieff's  words  and  tones. 

"I  will  tell  you  some  other  time,"  said  Miss 
Krieff,  resuming  her  rei)ellent  tone — ' '  not  now. 
If  I  find  you  worthy  of  my  confidence,  I  will 
give  it  to  you." 

"  I  will  try  to  show  myself  worthy  of  it,"  said 
(juiiltier,  and,  after  a  time,  took  his  departure, 
leaving  Miss  Krieft'  to  her  thoughts. 

Xow,  who  was  this  Miss  Krieft"?  She  was  an 
important  member  of  the  numerous  household 
which  the  General  had  brought  with  him  from 
India.  IShe  had  been  under  his  guardianship 
since  her  infancy ;  who  she  was  no  one  knew 
liut  the  General  himself.  Her  position  was  an 
liononible  one,  and  the  General  always  treated 
her  with  a  respect  and  aff'ection  that  were  almost 
paternal.  Thus  her  life  had  been  passed,  first 
as  playmate  to  Zilhib,  whom  she  exceeded  in 
<ige  by  about  four  years,  and  afterward  as  com- 
liariioii,  fiiend,  almost  sister,  to  the  spoiled  child 
unci  wayward  heiress. 

Hilda  Krieft'  was  a  person  of  no  common  char- 
acter. Even  in  India  her  nature  had  exhibited 
remarkable  traits.  Child  as  she  then  was,  her 
astuteness  and  self-control  were  such  as  might 
have  excited  the  admiration  of  Macchiavelli  him- 
self. By  jiersistent  flattery,  by  the  indulgence 
of  every  whim,  and,  above  all,  by  the  most  ex- 
aggerated protestations  of  devotion,  she  had  ob- 
tained a  powerful  influence  over  Zillah's  unc(m- 
troUcd  but  loving  nature ;  and  thus  she  had  grad- 
ually made  herself  so  indispensable  to  her  that 
Zillah  could  never  bear  to  be  separated  from  one 
who  so  humored  all  her  whims,  and  bore  her 
most  ungoverin\ble  fits  of  passion  with  such  un- 
varying sweetness.  Hilda  had  evidently  taken 
her  lesson  from  the  General  himself;  and  thus 
Zillah  was  treated  with  equal  servility  by  her  fa- 
ther and  her  friend. 

Personally,  there  was  some  general  resemblance 
between  the  two  girls ;  though  in  Hilda  the  sal- 
low hue  of  ill  health  was  replaced  by  a  clear  olive 
complexion ;  and  her  eyes,  which  she  seldom 
raised,  had  a  somewhat  furtive  manner  at  times, 
wliich.was  altogether  absent  from  Zillah's  clear 
frank  gaze.  Hilda's  voice  was  low  and  me- 
lodious, never  even  in  the  abandon  of  childish 
play,  or  in  any  excitement,  had  she  been  known 
to  raise  its  tones ;  her  step  was  soft  and  noiseless, 
and  one  had  no  idea  that  she  was  in  the  room 
till  she  was  found  standing  by  one's  side. 

Zillah's  maid  Sarah  described  in  her  own  way 
the  characteristics  of  Hilda  Krieft: 

"That  Injun  girl,"  she  said,  "always  giv  her 
a  turn.  For  her  part  she  preferred  Missy,  who, 
though  she  did  kick  uncommon,  and  were  awful 
cantankerous  to  manage,  was  always  ready  to 
make  it  up,  and  say  as  she  had  been  naughty. 
For  my  part,"  concluded  Sarah,  "I  am  free  to 
ciinrcsN  I  have  often  giv  Missy  a  sly  sliake  when 
she  was  in  one  of  them  tantrums,  and  I  got  the 
cliance,  and  however  that  girl  can  be  always 


meek  spoken  even  when  she  has  books  a-shied 
at  her  head  is  more  than  I  can  tell,  and  I  don't 
like  it  neither.  I  see  a  look  in  them  eyes  of  hers 
sometimes  as  I  don't  like." 

Thus  we  SCO  that  Hilda's  Christian-like  for- 
giveness of  injuries  met  with  but  little  apprecia- 
'  tion  in  some  quarters.     But  this  mattered  little, 
since  with  the  General  and  Zillah  she  was  always 
in  the  highest  favor. 

What  had  these  years  that  had  passed  done 
for  Zillah  ?     In  j)ersonal  ajjpearance  not  very 
nnicli.    The  plain  sickly  child  had  developed  into 
a  tall  ungainly  girl,  whose  legs  and  arms  ap- 
peared incessantly  to  present  to  their  owner  the 
insoluble   problem — What  is  to  be   done  with 
us?    Her  face  was  still  thin  and  sallow,  although 
it  was    redeemed   by    its  magnificent  eyes  and 
wealt'.  of  lustrous,  jet-black   hair.     As  to  her 
hair,  to  tell  the  truth,  she  managed  its  luxuriant 
folds  in  a  manner  as  little  ornamental  as  pos- 
sible.    She  would  never  consent  to  allow  it  to 
be  dressed,  affirming  that  it  would  diive  her 
mad  to  sit  still  so  long,  and  it  was  accordingly 
tricked  up  with  more  regard  to  expedition  than 
to  neatness ;  and  long  untidy  locks  might  gen- 
erally be  seen  straggling  over  her  shoulders. 
Nevertheless  a  mind  possessed  of  lively  imagina- 
tion and  great  faith  might  have  traced  in  this 
girl  the  possibility  of  better  things. 
I      In  mentrtl  acquirements  she  was  lamentably 
deficient.      Her  mind   was  a  garden  gone  to 
waste ;  the  weeds  flourished,  but  the  good  seed 
;  refused  to  take  root.     It  had  been  found  almost 
impossible  to  give  her  even  the  rudiments  of  ii 
i  good  education,     tioverness  after  governess  had 
[  come  to  I'omeroy  Court ;  governess  after  govern- 
ess after  a  short  trial  had  left,  each  one  telling 
I  the  same  story:  Miss  Pomeroy's  abilities  weio 
1  good,  even  above  the  average,  but  her  disincli- 
I  nation  to  learning  was  so  great — such  was  the 
delicately  expressed  formula  in  which  they  made 
known  to  the  General  Zillah's  utter  idleness  and 
selfishness — that  she  (the  governess)  felt  that  she 
'  was  unable  to  do  her  justice ;  that  possibly  the 
fault  lay  in  her  own  method  of  imparting  in- 
struction, and  that  she  therefore  begged  to  re- 
sign th;?  position  of  Miss  Pomeroy's  instructress. 
I  Now,  as  each  new  teacher  had  begun  a  system 
I  of  her  own  which  she  had  not  had  time  to  de- 
velop, it  may  be  easily  seen  that  the  little  knowl- 
edge which  Zillah  jmssessed  was  of  the  most 
desultory  character.    Yet  after  all  she  had  some- 
thing in  her  favor.     She  had  a  taste  for  read- 
ing,  and  this  led  her  to  a  familiarity  with  the 
l)est  authors.     More  than  this,  her  "father  had 
instilled  into  her  mind  a  chivalrous  sense  of  hon- 
or; and  from  natural  instinct,  as  well  as  from 
his  teacbings,  she  loved  all  that  was  noble  and 
pure.    Medieval  romance  was  most  congenial  to 
lier  taste  ;  and  of  all  the  heroes  who  figure  therg 
j  she  loved  best  the  pure,  the  high-souled,  the 
1  heavenly  Sir  Galahad.      All  tlie  heroes  of  the 
Arthurian  or  of  the  Carlovingian  epopee  were 
,  adored  by  tliis  wayward  but  generous  girl.     She 
\  would  sit  for  hours  curled  up  on  a  window-sill 
of  the  library,  reading  tales  of  Arthur  and  the 
knights  of  the  Round  Table,  or  of  Charlemagne 
and  his  Paladins.    Fairy  lore,  and  whatever  else 
our  medieval  ancestors  have  loved,  thus  became 
most  familiar  to  her,  and  all  her  soul  Iwcamo  im- 
bued with  these  bright  and  radiant  fancies.     Aiul 
through  it  all  she  learned  the  one  great  lesson 


•:*J*- 


26 


■9\A>.IVfffl»VKI 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


TiJ'' 


I" 


. 


. 


which  these  romances  teach — that  the  grandest 
and  most  heroic  of  all  virtues  is  self-abnegation 
at  the  call  of  honor  and  loyalty. 

The  only  trouble  was,  Zillah  took  too  grand 
a  view  of  this  virtue  to  make  it  practi'ally  useful 
in  daily  life.  If  she  had  thus  taki  ■  to  her 
heart,  it  might  have  made  her  pract  by  giv- 

ing up  her  will  to  those  ar()un('  and  by 

showing  from  day  to  day  the  bea  f  gentle- 

ness and  courtesy.  This,  howevc. ,  she  never 
thought  of;  or,  if  it  came  to  her  mind,  she  con- 
sidered it  quite  beneath  her  notice.  Hers  was 
simply  a  grand  tiieory,  to  carry  out  which  she 
never  dreamed  of  any  sacrilice  but  one  of  the 
grandest  character. 

The  General  certainly  did  all  in  his  power  to 
induce  her  to  learn ;  and  if  she  did  not,  it  was 
scarcely  his  fault.  But,  while  Zillah  thus  grew 
up  in  ignorance,  there  was  one  who  did  profit  by 
the  instructions  which  she  had  despised,  and,  in 
spite  of  the  constant  change  of  teachers  which 
Zillah's  impracticable  character  had  rendered 
necessary,  was  now,  at  the  age  of  nineteen,  a 
refined,  well-educated,  and  highly-accomplished 
youn^  lady.  This  was  Hilda  KrieflF.  General 
I'omeroy  was  anxious  that  she  should  have  every 
possible  advantage,  and  Zillah  was  glad  enough 
to  have  a  companion  in  her  studies.  The  result 
is  easily  stated.  Zillah  was  idle,  Hilda  was  stu- 
dious, and  all  that  tlie  teachers  could  impart  was 
diligently  mastered  by  her. 


CHAPTER  VII. 


THE  SECRET   CIPHER. 


Some  time  passed  away,  and  Gualtier  made 
his  usual  visits.  Zillah's  moods  were  variable 
and  capricious.  Sometimes  she  would  languidly 
declare  that  she  conld  not  take  her  lesson ;  at 
other  times  she  would  take  it  for  about  ten  min- 
utes ;  and  then,  rising  hastily  from  the  piano,  she 
would  insist  that  she  was  tired,  and  refuse  to 
study  any  more  for  that  day.  Once  or  twice, 
by  an  extreme  effort,  she  managed  to  devote  a 
whole  half  hour,  and  then,  as  though  such  ex- 
ertion was  superhuman,  she  would  retire,  and 
for  several  weeks  afterward  plead  that  half  hour 
as  an  excuse  for  her  negligence.  All  this  Gual- 
tier bore  with  perfect  equanimity.  Hilda  said 
nothing ;  and  generally,  after  Zillah's  retirement, 
she  would  go  to  the  piano  herself  and  take  a 
lesson. 

These  lessons  were  diversified  by  general  con- 
versation. Often  they  spoke  about  Zillah,  but 
very  seldom  was  it  that  they  went  beyond  this. 
Miss  Krieff  showed  no  desire  to  speak  of  the 
subject  which  they  once  had  touched  upon,  and 
Gualtier  was  too  cunning  to  be  obtrusive.  So 
the  weeks  passed  by  without  any  renewal  of  that 
confidential  conversation  in  which  they  had  once 
indulged. 

While  Zillah  was  present,  Hilda  never  in  any 
instance  showed  any  sign  whatever  of  anger  or 
impatience.  She  seemed  not  to  notice  her  be- 
havior, or  if  she  did  notice  it  she  seemed  to  think 
it  a  very  ordinary  matter.  On  Zillah's  retiring 
she  generally  took  her  place  at  the  piano  with- 
out a  word,  and  Gualtier  began  his  instructions. 
It  was  during  these  instructions  that  their  con- 
versation generally  took  place.    . 


One  day  Gualtier  came  and  found  Hilda  alone. 
She  was  somewhat  distrait,  but  showed  ])ieasurc 
at  seeing  him,  at  which  he  felt  both  gratified  and 
flattered.  "  Where  is  Miss  Pomeroy  ?"  he  asked, 
after  the  usual  greetings  had  been  exchanged. 

"  You  will  not  have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  her 
to-day,"  answered  Hilda,  dryly. 
"Is  she  ill?" 

"111?    She  is  never  ill.     No.     She  has  gone 
out." 
"Ah?" 

"The  General  was  going  to  take  a  drive  to 
visit  a  friend,  and  she  took  it  into  her  head  to 
accompany  him.  Of  course  he  had  to  take  her. 
It  was  very  inconvenient — and  very  ridiculous — 
but  the  moment  she  proposed  it  he  assented,  with 
only  a  very  faint  effort  at  dissuasion.  So  they 
have  gone,  and  will  not  be  back  for  some  hours." 
"  1  hope  you  will  allow  me  to  say,"  remarked 
Gualtier,  in  a  low  voice,  "that  I  consider  her 
absence  rather  an  advantage  than  otherwise." 

"You  could  hardly  feel  otherwise,"  said  Hil- 
da.    "Y'ou  have  not  yet  got  a  broken  head,  it 
is  true ;  but  it  is  coming.    Some  day  you  will  not 
walk  out  of  the  house.    You  will  be  carried  out. " 
"You  speak  bitterly." 
"I  feel  bitterly." 

"Has  any  thing  new  happened?"  he  asked, 
following  up  the  advantage  which  her  confession 
gave  him. 

"  No ;  it  is  the  old  story.  Interminable  trou- 
bles, which  have  to  be  borne  with  interminable 
patience." 

There  was  a  long  silence,  "You  spoke  once," 
said  Gualtier  at  last,  in  a  low  lone,  "  of  some- 
thing which  you  promised  one  day  *  ■  tell  me — 
some  papers.  You  said  that  you  would  show 
them  some  "lay  when  we  were  better  acquainted. 
Are  we  not  bevic  acquainted?  You  have  seen 
me  now  for  many  weeks  since  that  time,  and 
ought  to  know  whether  I  am  worthy  to  be  trust- 
ed or  not." 

"Mr.  Gualtier," said  Hilda,  frankly,  and  with- 
out hesitation,  "from  my  point  of  view  I  have 
concluded  that  you  are  worthy  to  be  trusted.  I 
have  decided  to  show  you  the  paper." 

Gualtier  began  to  murmur  his  thanks.  Hilda 
waved  her  hand.  "There  is  no  need  of  that," 
said  she.  "  It  may  not  amount  to  any  thing, 
and  then  your  thanks  will  be  thrown  away.  If 
it  does  amount  to  something  you  will  share  the 
benefit  of  it  with  me — though  you  can  not  share 
the  revenge,"  she  muttered,  in  a  lower  tone. 
"  But,  after  all,"  she  continued,  "  I  do  not  know 
that  any  thing  can  be  gained  by  it.  The  con- 
jectures which  I  have  formed  may  all  be  un- 
founded." 

"  At  any  rate,  I  shall  be  able  to  see  what  the 
foundation  is,"siiid  Gualtier. 

"True,"  returned  Hilda,  rising;  "and  so  I 
will  go  at  once  and  get  the  paper. " 

"  Have  you  kept  it  ever  since  ?"  he  asked. 
"What!  the  paper?    Oh,  you  must  not  im- 
agine that  I  have  kept  the  original  1    No,  no.     1 
kept  it  long  enough  to  make  a  copy,  and  returned 
the  original  to  its  place. " 
"Where  did  you  find  it?" 
"  In  the  General's  private  desk." 
"Did  it  seem  to  be  a  paper  of  any  import- 
ance?" 

"Yes ;  it  was  kept  by  itself  in  a  secret  drawer. 
That  showed  its  importance." 


T 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


vr 


Hilda  then  left  the  room,  and 
in  a  short  time  returned  with  a 
paper  in  lier  hand. 

"  Here  it  is,"  she  said,  and  she 
gave  it  to  Gtuiltier.  Gualtier  took 
it,  and  iinfulding  it,  he  saw  tiiis : 

Gualtier  tooic  this  singular  pa- 
per, and  examined  it  long  and 
earnestly.  Hilda  had  copied  out 
the  characters  with  painful  mi- 
nuteness and  beautiful  accuracy ; 
but  nothing  in  it  suggested  to 
him  any  revelation  of  its  dark 
meaning,  and  he  put  it  down  with 
a  strange,  bewildered  air. 

"What  is  it  all?"  he  asked. 
"  It  seems  to  contain  some  mys- 
tery, beyond  a  doubt.  I  can 
gather  nothing  from  the  charac- 
ters. They  are  all  astronomical 
signs ;  and,  so  far  as  I  can  see, 
are  the  signs  of  the  zodiac  and 
of  the  planets.  Here,  said  he, 
pointing  to  the  character  <i)i  '^^ 
the  sign  of  the  Sun;  and  here, 
pointing  to  ===,is  libra;  and  here 
is  Aries,  pointing  to  the  sign  t  . 

"Yes,"  said  Hilda;  "and  that 
occurs  most  frequently." 

"What  is  it  all?" 

"I  take  it  to  bo  a  secret  ci- 
pher." 

"How?" 

"Why,  this — that  these  signs 
are  only  used  to  represent  letters 
of  the  alphabet.  If  such  a  sim- 
ple mode  of  concealment  has  been 
used  the  solution  is  an  easy 
one." 

"  Can  you  solve  cipher  alpha- 
bets?" 

"Yes,  where  there  is  nothing 
more  than  a  concealment  of  the 
letters.  Where  there  is  any  ap- 
proach to  hieroglyphic  writing,  or 
syllabic  ciphers,  I  am  baffled." 

"And  have  you  solved  this?" 

"No." 

"I  thought  you  said  that  you 
had,  and  that  it  contained  charg- 
es against  General  Pomeroy. " 

"  That  is  my  difficulty.  I  have 
tried  the  usual  tests,  and  have 
made  out  several  lines  ;  but  there 
is  something  al)out  it  which 
puzzles  me ;  and  though  I  have 
worked  at  it  for  nearly  a  year,  I 
have  not  been  able  to  get  to  the 
bottom  of  it." 

"Are  you  sure  that  your  de- 
ciphering is  correct  ?" 

"No." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  it  ought  to  apply  to 
all,  and  it  does  not.  It  only  ap- 
plies to  a  quarter  of  it." 

"Perhaps  it  is  all  hieroglyph- 
ic, or  syllabic  writing. " 

"Perhaps  so." 

"In  that  case  can  you  solve 
it?" 

"No ;  and  that  is  one  reason 


.b  j{>  -.v..  -f ..  ^^\)>  p  cs^^ffv^!   [,1  ^  ^  ^  ex  ^ 
^ -55  .y  (X  ..  P  I  i«^- •.  ^{  ^  LI   O +0  li>    CH 


IHUl^HIM  «  i"J*""  ^',Vfi'iHl.^il"U^*p(ll|il.|,'»^|l||mM»  '  I  s 


I 


28 


THE  CRYPT03RAM. 


'what  is  it  all?'  hb  asked.' 


why  I  have  thought  of  you.  Have  you  ever  tried 
any  thing  of  the  kind  f 

"  No ;  never.  And  I  don't  see  how  you  have 
learned  any  thing  about  it,  or  how  you  have  been 
able  to  arrive  at  any  principle  of  action."' 

"Oh,  ns  to  that,"  returned  Hilda,  "the  prin- 
ciple upon  which  I  work  is  very  simple ;  but  I 


wish  you  to  try  the  solution  with  your  own  un- 
aided ingenuity.  So,  simple  as  my  plan  is,  I  will 
not  tell  you  any  thing  about  it  just  now." 

Gunltier  looked  again  at  the  paper  with  an  ex- 
pression of  deep  perplexity. 

"  How  am  I  even  to  begin  ?"  said  he.  "  What 
am  I  to  do  ?    You  might  ns  well  ask  me  to  trans- 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


99 


ffllli 


late  the  Peschito  version  of  the  Syriac  gospels, 
or  the  Hig-Vcilii." 

"1  tliink,"said  Hilda,  coolly,  "that  you  have 
sufficient  ingenuity." 

"  I  have,"  said  Gualtier ;  "  but,  unfortunately, 
my  I'lgenuity  does  not  lie  at  all  in  this  direction. 
Thi,'  is  soinetiiing  different  from  any  thing  that 
luis  ever  come  in  my  way  before.  !See,"  he  said, 
pointing  to  the  jiaper,  "  this  solid  mass  of  letters. 
It  is  a  ])erfect  block,  an  exact  rectangle.  How 
do  you  know  where  to  begin  ?  Nothing  on  the 
letters  shows  this.  How  do  you  know  whether 
you  are  to  read  from  left  to  right,  or  from  right 
to  left,  like  I  lebrew  and  Arabic ;  or  both  ways, 
like  the  old  Greek  Boustrephedon  ;  or  vertically, 
like  the  C;hinese;  or,  for  that  matter,  diagonally? 
Why,  one  doesn't  know  even  how  to  begin ! " 

"That  must  all  be  carefully  considered,"  said 
Hilda.  "  1  have  weighed  it  all,  and  know  every 
letter  by  heart;  ifs  shape,  its  position,  and  all 
about  it." 

"Well,"  said  Gualtier,  "you  must  not  be  at 
all  surprised  if  I  fail  utterly." 

"At  least  you  will  try  ?" 

"Try?  I  shall  be  only  too  happy.  I  shall 
devote  to  this  all  the  time  that  I  have.  I  will 
give  up  all  my  mind  and  all  my  soul  to  it.  I 
will  not  oidy  examine  it  while  I  am  by  myself, 
but  I  will  carry  this  paper  with  me  wherever  I 
go,  and  occupy  every  spare  moment  in  studying 
it.  I'll  learn  every  character  by  heart,  and  think 
over  them  all  day,  and  dream  about  them  all 
night.  Do  not  be  afraid  that  I  shall  neglect  it. 
It  is  enough  for  me  that  you  have  given  this  for 
me  to  attempt  its  solution." 

Gualtier  spoke  with  earnestness  and  impetuos- 
ity, but  Hilda  did  not  .seem  to  notice  it  at  all. 

"Recollect,"  she  said,  in  her  usual  cool  man- 
ner, "  it  is  as  much  for  your  interest  as  for  mine. 
If  my  conjecture  is  right,  it  may  be  of  the  utmost 
value.  If  I  am  wrong,  then  I  do  not  know  what 
to  do." 

"You  think  that  this  implicates  General  Pome- 
roy  in  some  crime?" 

"That  is  my  impression,  from  my  own  attempt 
at  solving  it.  But,  as  I  said,  my  solution  is  only 
a  partial  one.  I  can  not  fathom  the  rest  of  it, 
and  do  not  know  how  to  begin  to  do  so.  That 
is  the  reason  why  I  want  your  help." 


ith  an  ex- 

"  What 
e  to  trans- 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

DECIPHERING. 

Many  weeks  passed  away  before  Gnaltier  had 
another  opportunity  of  having  a  confidential  con- 
versation with  Miss  Krieff.  Zillah  seemed  to  be 
perverse.  She  was  as  capricious  as  ever  as  to 
iier  music :  some  days  attending  to  it  for  five 
minutes,  other  days  haif  an  hour ;  but  now  she  did 
not  choose  to  leave  the  room.  She  would  quit 
the  p'ano,  and,  flinging  herself  into  a  chair,  de- 
elarf)  that  she  wanted  to  see  how  Hilda  stood  it. 
As  Hilda  seated  herself  and  wrought  out  elabo- 
rate combinations  from  the  instrument,  she  would 
liston  attentively,  and  when  it  was  over  she  would 
give  expression  to  some  despairing  words  as  to 
her  own  stupidity. 

Yet  Gualtier  had  opportunities,  and  he  was  not 
slow  to  avail  himself  of  them.  Confidential  in- 
tercourse had  arisen  between  himself  and  Miss 


Krieff,  and  he  was  determined  to  avail  himself 
of  the  great  advantage  which  this  gave  him. 
They  had  a  secret  in  common — she  had  admitted 
him  to  her  intimacy.  There  was  an  understand- 
ing between  them.  Each  felt  an  interest  in  the 
other.  Gualtier  knew  that  he  was  more  than  an 
ordinary  music-teacher  to  her. 

During  those  days  when  Zillah  persistently 
staid  in  the  room  he  made  opportunities  for  him- 
self. Standing  behind  her  at  the  ]iiaiu)  he  had 
chances  of  speaking  words  which  Zillah  coidd 
not  hear. 

Thus :  "  Your  fingering  there  is  not  correct, 
Miss  Krieff,"  he  would  say  in  a  low  tone.  "  You 
must  put  the  second  finger  on  G.  I  have  not  yet 
deciphered  it." 

"But  the  book  indicates  the  third  finger  on 
G.     Have  you  tried  ?" 

"  It  is  a  blunder  of  the  printer.  Yes,  every 
day — almost  every  hour  of  every  day." 

"  Yet  it  seems  to  me  to  be  natural  to  put  the 
third  finger  there.     Are  you  discouraged  ?" 

"Try  the  second  finger  once  or  twice,  this 
way;"  and  he  played  a  few  notes.  "Discour- 
aged ?  no ;  I  am  willing  to  keep  at  it  for  an  in- 
definite period." 

"  Yes,  I  see  that  it  is  better.  You  must  suc- 
ceed. I  was  three  months  at  it  before  I  dis- 
covered any  thing." 

"That  jmssage  is  allegro,  and  you  played  it 
andante.  I  wish  you  would  give  me  a  faint  hint 
as  to  the  way  in  which  you  deciphered  it." 

"I  did  not  notice  the  directions,"  responded 
Miss  Krieff,  playing  the  passage  over  again. 
"Will  that  do?  No,  I  will  give  no  hint.  You 
would  only  imitate  me  then,  and  I  wish  you  to 
find  out  for  yourself  on  your  own  principle." 

"Yes,  that  is  much  better.  But  I  have  no 
principle  to  start  on,  and  have  not  yet  found  out 
even  how  to  begin." 

"I  must  pay  more  attention  to  'expression,' 
I  see.  You  say  my  '  time'  is  correct  enough. 
If  you  are  not  discouraged,  you  will  find  it  out 
yet." 

"Your  'time'  is  perfect.  If  it  is  possible,  I 
will  find  it  out.     I  am  not  discouraged." 

"Well,  I  will  hope  for  something  better  the 
next  time,  and  now  don't  speak  about  it  any 
more.     The  '  brat'  is  listening. " 

''^Allegro,  allegro;  remember.  Miss  Krieff. 
You  always  confound  andante  with  allegro. " 

"So  I  do.     They  have  the  same  initials." 

Such  was  the  nature  of  Gualtier's  musical  in- 
structions. These  communications,  however, 
were  brief  and  hurried,  and  only  served  to  deepen 
the  intimacy  between  them.  They  had  now  mu- 
tually recognized  themselves  as  two  conspirators, 
and  had  thus  become  already  indispensable  to 
one  another. 

They  waited  patiently,  however,  and  at  length 
their  patient  waiting  was  rewarded.  One  day 
Gualtier  came  and  found  that  Zillah  was  unwell, 
and  confined  to  her  room.  It  was  the  slightest 
thing  in  the  world,  but  the  General  was  anxious 
and  fidgety,  and  was  staying  in  the  room  with 
her  trying  to  amuse  her.  This  Miss  Krieff  told 
him  with  her  usual  bitterness. 

"And  now,"  said  she,  "we  will  have  an  hour. 
I  want  to  know  what  you  have  done." 

"Done!     Nothing." 

"Nothing?" 

"No,  nothing.     My  genius  does  not  lie  in 


30 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


!      E 


! 
t    hi 


that  direction.  Yon  might  as  well  have  expected 
ine  to  decipher  a  Ninevite  inscription.  I  can  do 
nothing." 

"Have  you  tried?" 

"  Tried !  1  assure  you  that  for  the  last  month 
the  only  thing  that  I  have  tliought  of  has  been 
this.  Many  reasons  have  urged  me  to  decipher 
it,  but  tlie  chief  motive  was  the  hope  of  bringing 
to  you  a  complete  explanation." 

''  Have  you  not  made  out  at  least  a  part  of  it  ?" 

"Not  a  part — not  a  single  word — if  there  are 
words  in  it — which  I  very  much  doubt." 

"  Why  should  you  doubt  it?" 

"  It  seems  to  me  that  it  must  consist  of  hiero- 
glyphics. You  yourself  say  tliat  you  have  only 
made  out  a  part  of  it,  and  that  you  doubt  whether 
it  is  a  valid  interpretation.  After  all,  then,  your 
interpretation  is  only  partial — only  a  conjecture. 
Now  I  have  not  begun  to  make  even  a  conjecture. 
For  see — what  is  this?"  and  Gualtier  drew  the 
well-thumbed  paper  from  his  pocket.  "I  have 
counted  up  nil  the  different  characters  here,  and 
find  that  they  are  forty  in  number.  They  are 
composed  chiefly  of  astronomical  signs ;  but  six- 
teen of  them  are  the  ordinary  punctuation  marks, 
such  as  one  sees  every  day.  If  it  were  merely  a 
secret  alphabet,  there  would  be  twenty-six  signs 
only,  not  forty.  What  can  one  do  with  forty 
signs  ? 

"I  have  examined  different  grammars  of  for- 
eign languages  to  see  if  any  of  them  iiad  forty 
letters,  but  among  the  few  books  at  my  command 
I  can  find  none ;  and  even  if  it  were  so,  what 
then  ?  'What  would  be  the  use  of  trying  to  de- 
cipher an  inscription  in  Arabic?  I  thought  at 
one  time  that  perhaps  the  writer  might  have 
adopted  the  short-hand  alphabet,  but  changed 
the  signs.  Yet  even  when  I  go  from  this  prin- 
ciple I  can  do  nothing." 

"Then  you  give  it  up  altogether?" 

"  Yes,  altogether  and  utterly,  so  far  as  I  am 
concerned ;  but  I  still  am  anxious  to  know  what 
you  have  deciphered,  and  how  you  have  deci- 
jjhered  it.  I  have  a  hope  that  I  may  gain  some 
light  from  your  discovery,  and  thus  be  able  to  do 
something  myself." 

"Well,  "said  Miss  Krieff,  "I  will  tell  you,  since 
you  have  failed  so  completely.  My  principle  is 
a  simple  one ;  and  my  deci])hering,  though  only 
])artial,  seems  to  me  to  be  so  true,  as  far  as  it 
goes,  that  I  can  not  imagine  how  any  other  re- 
sult can  be  found. 

"I  am  aware,  "she  continued,  "that  there  are 
forty  different  characters  in  the  inscription.  I 
counted  them  all  out,  and  wrote  them  out  most 
carefully.  I  went  on  the  simple  principle  that 
the  writer  had  written  in  English,  and  that  the 
number  of  the  letters  might  be  disregarded  on  a 
first  examination. 

"Then  I  examined  the  number  of  times  in 
which  each  letter  occurred.  I  found  that  the 
sign  T  occurred  most  frequently.  Next  was  n  ; 
next  8  ;  and  then  as,  and  «,  and  ■&,  and  t, 
and  i . "  Miss  Krieff  marked  these  signs  down 
as  she  spoke. 

Gualtier  nodded. 

"  There  was  this  peculiarity  about  these  signs," 
said  Miss  Krieff,  "  that  they  occurred  all  through 
the  writing,  while  the  oiiiers  occurred  some  in 
the  first  half  and  some  in  the  second.  For  tliis 
inscription  is  very  peculiar  in  this  respect.  It  is 
only  in  the  second  half  that  the  signs  of  punctua- 


tion occur.    The  signs  of  the  first  half  are  all 
astronomical. 

"  You  must  remember,  "continued  Miss  Krieff, 
"  that  I  did  not  think  of  any  other  language  than 
the  English.  The  idea  of  its  being  any  dialect 
of  the  Hindustani  never  entered  my  head.  So  I 
went  on  this  foundation,  and  naturally  the  first 
thought  that  came  to  me  was,  what  letters  are 
there  in  English  which  occur  most  freijuently? 
It  seemed  to  me  if  I  could  find  this  out  I  might 
obtain  some  key,  partially,  at  any  rate,  to  the 
letters  which  occurred  so  frequently  in  this  writ- 
ing. 

"  I  had  plenty  of  time  and  unlimited  patience. 
I  took  a  large  number  of  different  books,  written 
by  standard  authors,  and  counted  the  letters  on 
several  pages  of  each  as  they  occurred.  I  think 
I  counted  more  than  two  hundred  pages  in  this 
way.  I  began  with  the  vowels,  and  counted  up 
the  number  of  ti'.nes  each  one  occurred.  Then 
I  counted  tiie  consonants." 

"  That  never  occurred  to  me,"  said  Gualtier. 
"  Why  did  you  not  tell  me?" 

"Uecause  I  wanted  you  to  decipher  it  your- 
self on  your  own  principle.  Of  what  use  would 
it  be  if  you  only  followed  over  my  track  ?  You 
would  then  have  come  only  to  my  result.  But 
I  must  tell  you  the  result  of  my  examination. 
After  counting  up  the  I'ecurrence  of  all  the  letters 
on  more  than  two  hundred  pages  of  standard 
authors,  I  made  out  an  average  of  the  times  of 
their  recurrence,  and  I  have  the  paper  here  on 
which  I  wrote  the  average  down." 

And  Miss  Krieff  drew  from  her  pocket  a  paper 
which  she  unfolded  and  showed  to  Gualtier, 

On  it  was  the  following : 


AVEBAOE  OF  LETTKB8. 


E. 

T 162 

A 120 

H 110 

I.  J.... 109 

8 104 

0 100 

R 100 


222  times  per  page.  N. 

i«o     "       <>      "     L. 

"      "      D. 


.90  times  per  pace. 
.62     "        "      'T 
.40      **        "       " 


C 42 

U.  V. .  .88 

B 30 

W 80 

G 30 


"The  rest,"  said  Miss  Krieff,  "occur  on  the 
average  less  than  thirty  times  on  a  page,  and  so 
I  did  not  mark  them.  'F,'  'P,'  and  'K'  may 
be  supposed  to  occur  more  frequently  than  some 
others ;  but  they  do  not. 

"  '  E,'  then,"  she  continued,  "  is  the  letter  of 
first  importance  in  the  English  language.  'A,' 
and  '  T, '  and  '  H,'  are  the  next  ones.  Now  there 
are  some  little  words  which  include  these  letters, 
such  as  '  the. '  '  And'  is  another  word  which  may 
be  discocfeed  and  deciphered,  it  is  of  such  fre- 
quent occurrence.  If  these  words  only  can  be 
found,  it  is  a  sign  at  least  that  one  is  on  the  right 
track.  There  are  also  terminations  which  seem 
to  me  peculiar  to  the  English  language ;  such  as 
'  ng,'  '  ing,'  'ed,'  My,'  and  so  on.  At  any  rate, 
from  my  studies  of  the  Italian,  French,  and  Ger- 
man, and  from  my  knowledge  of  Hindustani,  I 
know  that  there  are  no  such  terminations  in  any 
of  the  words  of  those  languages.  So  you  see," 
concluded  Miss  Krieff,  with  a  quiet  smile,  "the 
simple  principle  on  which  I  acted." 

"Your  genius  is  marvelously  acute!"  ex- 
claimed Gualtier,  in  undisguised  admiration. 
"You  speak  of  your  principle  as  a  simple  one, 
but  it  is  more  than  I  have  been  able  to  arrive 
at."     ' 

"Men,"  said  Miss  Krieff,  "reason  too  much. 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


fl 


You  have  been  imagining  all  sorts  of  languages 
in  which  this  may  have  been  written.  Now, 
women  go  by  intuitions.     I  acted  in  that  way." 

"Intuitions!"  exclaimed  Gualtier.  "You 
iiave  reasoned  out  this  thing  in  a  way  which 
might  have  done  honor  to  Bacon.  You  have 
laid  down  a  great  principle  as  a  foundation,  and 
liave  gone  earnestly  to  work  building  up  your 
theory.  ChampuUion  himself  did  not  surpass 
you. 

Gualtier's  tone  expressed  profound  admiration. 
It  was  not  idle  compliment.  It  was  sincere.  He 
looked  upon  her  at  that  moment  as  a  superior 
geni\is.  His  intellect  bowed  before  hers.  Miss 
Krieff  saw  the  ascendency  which  she  had  gained 
over  him ;  and  his  expressions  of  admiration 
were  not  unwelcome.  Admiration  !  Rare,  in- 
deed, was  it  that  she  had  heard  any  expressions 
of  that  kind,  and  when  they  came  they  were  as 
welcome  as  is  the  water  to  the  parched  and  thirsty 
ground.  Her  whole  manner  softened  toward 
him,  and  her  eyes,  which  were  usually  so  bright 
and  iiard,  now  grew  softer,  though  none  the  less 
bright. 

"You  overestimate  what  I  have  done,"  said 
she,  "  and  you  forget  that  it  is  only  partially  ef- 
fected." 

"  Whether  partially  or  not,"  replied  Gualtier, 
"  I  have  the  most  intense  curiosity  to  see  what 
you  have  done.  Have  you  any  objections  to 
show  it  to  me  ?  Now  that  I  have  failed  by  my- 
self, the  only  hope  that  I  have  is  to  be  able  to 
succeed  through  your  assistance.  You  can  show 
your  superiority  to  me  here;  perhaps,  in  otiier 
things,  I  may  be  of  service  to  you. " 

"I  have  no  objections,  "said  MissKriefF.  "In- 
deed I  would  rather  show  you  my  results  than 
not,  so  as  to  hear  what  you  have  to  say  about 
them.  I  am  not  at  all  satisfied,  for  it  is  only 
partial.  1  know  what  you  will  say.  You  will 
see  several  reasons,  all  of  which  are  very  good, 
for  doubting  m}'  interpretation  of  this  writ- 
ing." 

"  I  can  assure  you  that  I  shall  doubt  nothing. 
After  my  own  disgraceful  failure  any  interpreta- 
tion will  seem  to  me  to  be  a  work  of  genius.  Be- 
lieve me  any  interpretation  of  yours  will  only 
fill  me  with  a  sense  of  my  own  weakness." 

"Well,"  said  Miss  Krieff,  after  a  pause,  "I 
will  show  you  what  I  have  done.  My  papers  aie 
in  my  room.  Go  and  play  on  the  piano  till  I 
come  back." 

Saying  this  she  departed,  and  was  absent  for 
about  a  quarter  of  an  hour  or  twenty  minutes, 
and  then  returned. 

"How  is  Miss  Pomeroy?"  askej  Gualtier, 
turning  round  on  the  piano-stool  and  rising. 

"  About  the  same,"  said  Miss  Krieff.  "The 
General  is  reading  Puss  in  Boots  to  her,  I  be- 
lieve. Perhaps  it  is  Jack  and  the  Bean  Stalk, 
or  Beauty  and  the  Beast.  It  is  one  of  them, 
however.     I  am  not  certain  which." 

She  walked  up  to  a  centre-table  and  opened  a 
paper  which  she  held  in  her  hand.  Gualtier  fol- 
lowed her,  and  took  a  seat  by  her  side. 

"You  must  remember,"  said  Miss  Krieff, 
"  that  this  interpretation  of  mine  is  only  a  par- 
tial one,  and  may  be  altogether  wrong.  Yet 
the  revelations  which  it  seemed  tp  convey  were 
so  startling  that  they  have  produced  a  very  deep 
impression  on  my  mind.  I  hoped  that  you  would 
have  done  something.     If  you  had  arrived  at  a 


Solution  similar  to  mine,  even  if  it  had  been  a 
partial  one,  I  should  have  been  satisfied  that  I 
had  arrived  at  a  part  of  the  truth  at  least.  As 
you  have  not  done  so,  nothing  remains  but  to 
show  you  what  I  have  done. " 

Saying  this,  she  opened  the  paper  which  she 
held  and  displayed  it  to  Gualtier : 


>? 

'^^D^5Mfcxaoo« 

i 

c^-^-f.^^q|>a:  -0i:^ 

<?-^Qr   ^^   ^11,    i^^^^ 

^ 

l>  <?  f:]  C(^  ^  <^  ^p 

^ 

'^r^CK'i^^  ZrrU: 

^ 

'f^    >eiCH^    I    ;„    p,         ^ 

ot^-S^^o:  n>^,,c> 

P>?  fri  »n    Pj    ^  O    cy-^fc» 

o 

2-yr   ;x-S<^3; 

>K 

•^t/r  >^f^r^c»> 

> 

csTTj--  <oibf">3^ 

^ 

3  r  >  -t)^'  G  o-^"-! 

> 

•^^^  -^^.-^r;^ 

^ 

»» 

Ul 

-<^i-iS^^f}. 

^ 

D  i  r  bc>  >  ^^  ^ 

Xj 

Hj  "^  >  i>3:  a:  H^O 

>> 

^  >y  -/t>.  >  ib^ 

^ 

^7^<i>t?ti:o^ 

r~ 

^  :^^  ^i^cr,^ 

m 

"^  o^^b^ob^ 

•c 

?H;^i;t;'tl;o^;^ 

>v 

o  o-<  c>Qpq:f^ 

r 

-^'^'^  (;^:^  P>  OH 

r 

bbOI  cxio  i^b  ^f^ 

> 

f^  >^  ^^  ^-<  ^2 

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70^^^^-0>^ 

> 

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«*jil?f- 


32 


^''HI^1^f?WPI»"lP«W»T^"W''^»^" 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


■!«^IPPPPIP»«P*P' 


"  In  that  writing,"  said  she,  "  there  are  twen- 
ty lines.  I  hiivo  lieen  utile  to  do  uny  thing  with 
ten  of  thcni  only,  and  that  piirtially.  The  rest 
is  beyond  my  fonjecture." 

The  paper  was  written  so  as  to  show  under 
each  i-liaracter  the  corresponding  letter,  or  what 
Miss  Kriert'  supposed  to  be  the  corresponding  let- 
ter, to  each  sign. 

"This,"  said  Miss  KriefT,  "is  about  half  of 
the  signs.  You  see  if  my  key  is  apjilied  it  makes 
intelligible  English  out  of  most  of  the  signs  in 
this  first  half.  There  seems  to  me  to  be  a  block 
of  letters  set  into  a  mass  of  characters.  Those 
triangular  portions  of  signs  at  each  end,  and  all 
the  lower  part,  seem  to  me  to  be  merely  a  mass 
of  characters  that  mean  nothing,  but  added  to 
conceal  and  distract." 

"It  is  possible,"  said  Gualtier,  carefully  ex- 
amining the  pajier. 

"It  must  mean  something,"  said  Miss  KriefF, 
"  and  it  can  mean  nothing  else  than  what  1  have 
written.  That  is  what  it  was  intended  to  ex- 
press. Those  letters  could  not  have  tumbled 
into  that  position  by  accident,  so  as  to  make  up 
these  words,  t^ee,"  she  continued,  "hero  are 
these  sentences  written  out  separately,  and  you 
can  rend  them  more  conveniently." 

She  handed  (lualtier  a  piece  of  paper,  on 
which  was  the  following : 

Oh  may  God  have  mercij  on  my  wretched  soul    Amen 
O  Pomeroj/  forrfed  a  humlred  thousand  dollars 
O  iV  J'omeroii  eloped  with  poor  Lady  Clietwynde 
She  acted  otit  0/  a  nutd  iviptibie  in  flying 
She  listened  to  me  and  ran  tiff  with  me 
She  was  piqued  at  her  huxhatui's  act 
Fell  in  with  Lady  Mary  Chetwynd 
Expelled  the  army  for  gaming 
JV  Pomeroy  of  Pomeroy  Berks 

0  I  am  a  miserable  villain 

Gualtier  read  it  long  and  thoughtfully. 

"  What  are  tlie  initials  '  O.  N.  ?'  "_ 

"Otto  Neville.     It  is  -the  General's  name." 

Silence  followed.  "Here  he  is  called  0 
Pomeroy,  O  N  Pomeroy,  and  N  Pomeroy." 

"  Yes ;  the  name  by  which  he  is  called  is  Ne- 
ville." 

"Your  idea  is  that  it  is  a  confession  of  guilt, 
written  by  this  O.  N.  Pomeroy  himself?" 

"It  reads  so." 

"I  don't  want  to  inquire  into  the  probability 
of  the  General's  writing  out  this  and  leaving  it 
in  his  drawer,  even  in  cipher,  but  I  look  only  at 
the  paper  itself." 

"What  do  you  think  of  it?" 

"  In  the  first  place  your  interpretation  is  very 
ingenious." 

"But—?" 

"But  it  seems  partial." 

"So  it  does  to  me.     That  is  the  reason  why 

1  want  your  help.  You  see  that  there  are  sev- 
eral things  about  it  which  give  it  an  incomplete 
character.  First,  the  mixture  of  initials  ;  then, 
the  interchange  of  the  first  and  third  persons. 
At  one  moment  the  writer  speaking  of  Pomeroy 
as  a  third  jierson,  running  off"  with  Lady  Chet- 
wynde,  and  again  saying  he  himself  fell  in  with 
her.  Then  there  are  incomplete  sentences,  such 
as,  '  Fell  in  with  Lady  Mary  Clietwynde — ' " 

"I  know  all  that,  but  I  have  two  ways  of  ac- 
counting for  it. " 

"What?" 

"First,  that  the  writer  became  confused  in  writ- 
ing the  cipher  characters  and  made  mistakes." 


'  What 


"  I'nat  is  probable,"  said  Gualtier. 
is  another  way?" 

"That  he  wrote  it  this  way  on  purpose  to 
batHe." 

"I  think  the  first  idea  is  the  best:  if  ho  had 
wished  to  battle  he  never  would  li.ive  written  it 
at  all." 

"  No ;  but  somebody  else  might  have  written 
it  in  his  name  thus  secretly  and  guardedly. 
Some  one  who  wished  for  vengeance,  and  tried 
this  way." 

Gualtier  said  nothing  in  rejily,  but  looked 
earnestly  at  Miss  Kriert". 


CHAPTER  IX.  . 

A     SERIOUS     ACCIDKNT. 

Abottt  this  time  an  event  took  place  which 
caused  a  total  change  in  the  lives  of  all  at  Pome- 
roy Court.  One  day,  when  out  hunting.  General 
Pomeroy  met  with  an  accident  of  a  very  serious 
nature.  While  leaping  over  a  hedge  the  horse 
slipped  and  threw  his  rider,  falling  heavily  on 
him  at  the  same  time.  He  was  picked  up  bleed- 
ing and  senseless,  and  in  that  condition  carried 
home.  On  seeing  her  father  thus  brought  back, 
Zillah  gave  way  to  a  perfect  frenzy  of  grief.  She 
threw  herself  upon  his  unconscious  form,  uttering 
wild  ejaculations,  and  it  was  with  extreme  diffi- 
culty that  she  could  be  taken  away  long  enough 
to  allow  the  General  to  be  undressed  and  laid  on 
his  bed.  She  thin  took  her  place  by  her  father's 
bedside,  where  sue  remained  without  food  or  sleep 
for  two  or  three  days,  refusing  all  entreaties  to 
leave  him.  A  doctor  had  been  sent  for  with  all 
speed,  and  on  his  arrival  did  what  he  could  for 
the  senseless  sufferer.    It  was  a  very  serious  case, 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


8S 


and  it  was  not  till  the  third  day  that  the  General 
opened  his  eyes.  The  first  siglit  thiit  he  saw  was 
the  pale  and  haggard  face  of  his  daughter. 

"What  is  this?"  he  murmured,  confusedly, 
and  in  a  faint  voice.  "What  arc  you  doing 
hero,  my  diirling?" 

At  the  sight  of  this  recognition,  and  the  soand 
of  his  voice,  Zillah  uttered  a  loud  cry  of  joy,  and 
twined  her  arms  about  him  in  an  eager  hunger 
of  afl'ection. 

"Oh,  papa!  papa!"  she  moaned,  "you  are 
getting  better !  You  will  not  leave  me — you  will 
not — you  will  not!" 

All  that  day  the  doctor  had  been  in  the  house, 
and  at  this  moment  had  been  waiting  in  an  ad- 
joining apartment.  The  cry  of  Zillah  startled 
him,  and  he  hurried  into  the  room,  lie  saw  her 
prostrate  on  the  bed,  with  her  arms  around  her 
father,  uttering  low,  half-hysterical  words  of  fond- 
ness, intermingled  with  laughter  and  weeping. 

"Miss  I'omeroy,"  he  said,  with  some  stern- 
ness, "are  you  mad  ?  Did  I  not  warn  you  above 
all  things  to  restrain  your  feelings  ?" 

Instantly  Zillah  started  up.  The  reproof  of 
the  doctor  had  so  stung'her  that  for  a  moment 
she  forgot  her  father,  and  regarded  her  reprover 
with  a  face  full  of  astonishment  and  anger. 

"  How  dare  you  speak  so  to  me?"  she  cried, 
savagely. 

The  doctor  looked  fixedly  at  her  for  a  few  mo- 
ments, and  then  answered,  quietly  : 

"  This  is  no  place  for  discussion.  I  will  ex- 
plain afterward."  He  then  went  to  the  General's 
bedside,  and  surveyed  his  patient  in  thoughtful 
silence.  Already  the  feeble  beginnings  of  re- 
turning consciousness  had  faded  away,  and  the 
sick  man's  eyes  were  closed  wearily.  The  doctor 
administered  some  medicine,  and  after  waiting 
for  nearly  an  hour  in  silence,  he  saw  the  General 
sink  oif  into  a  peaceful  sleep. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  in  a  low  voice,  "  Miss  Pome- 
roy,  I  wish  to  say  something  to  you.  Come  with 
me."  He  led  the  way  to  the  room  where  he  had 
been  waiting,  while  Zillah,  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  obeyed  an  order.  (She  followed  in  si- 
lence. 

"  Miss  Pomeroy,"  said  the  doctor,  very  grave- 
ly, "your  father's  case  is  very  serious  indeed, 
and  I  want  to  have  a  perfect  understanding  with 
you.  If  you  have  not  thorough  confidence  in 
me,  you  have  only  to  say  so,  and  I  will  give  you 
a  list  of  physicians  of  good  standing,  into  whose 
hands  you  may  safely  confide  the  General.  But 
if,  on  the  contrary,  you  wish  me  to  continue  my 
charge,  1  will  only  do  so  on  the  condition  that  I 
am  to  be  the  sole  mastn-  in  that  room,  and  that 
my  injunctions  are  to  Le  implicitly  attended  to. 
Now,  choose  for  yourself. " 

This  grave,  stem  address,  and  the  idea  that  he 
might  leave  her,  frightened  Zillah  altogether  out 
of  her  passion.  She  looked  ptteously  at  him,  and 
grasped  his  hand  as  if  in  fear  that  he  would  in- 
stantly carrj'  out  his  threat. 

"Oh,  doctor!"  she  cried,  "pray  forgive  me; 
do  not  leave  me  when  dear  papa  is  so  ill !  It 
shall  be  all  as  you  say,  only  you  will  not  send  me 
away  from  him,  will  you  ?  Oh,  say  that  you  will 
not !" 

The  doctor  retained  her  hand,  and  answered 

very  kindly :  "  My  dear  child,  I  should  be  most 

sorry  to  do  so.     Now  that  your  father  has  come 

back  to  consciousness,  you  may  be  the  greatest 

C 


possible  comfort  to  him  if  yon  will.  But,  to  do 
this,  you  really  must  try  to  control  yourself.  The 
excitement  which  you  have  just  caused  him  has 
overcome  him,  and  if  I  hud  not  been  here  I  do 
not  know  what  might  have  happened.  Remem- 
ber, my  child,  that  love  is  shown  not  by  words 
but  by  deeds  ;  and  it  would  be  but  a  poor  return 
for  all  your  father's  affection  to  give  way  selfishly 
to  your  own  grief. " 

"Oh,  what  have  I  done?"  cried  Zillah,  in 
terror. 

"I  do  not  suppose  that  you  have  done  him 
very  serious  injury,"  said  the  doctor,  reassuring- 
ly; "but  you  ought  to  take  warning  by  this. 
You  will  promise  now,  won't  you,  that  there  shall 
be  no  repetition  of  this  conduct  ?" 

"Oh,  I  will!  I  will!" 

"  1  will  trust  you,  then,"  said  the  doctor,  look- 
ing with  pity  upon  lier  sad  face.  "  You  are  his 
best  nurse,  if  you  only  keep  your  promise.  So 
now,  my  dear,  go  back  to  your  place  by  his  side." 
And  Zillah,  with  a  faint  murmur  of  thanks,  went 
back  again. 

On  the  following  day  General  Pomeroy  seemed 
to  have  regained  his  full  consciousness.  Zillah 
exercised  a  strong  control  over  herself,  and  was 
true  to  her  promise.  When  the  doctor  called 
he  seemed  pleased  at  the  favorable  change.  But 
there  was  evidently  something  on  the  General'H 
mind.  Finally,  ho  made  the  doctor  understand 
that  he  wished  to  see  him  alone.  The  doctor 
whispered  a  few  words  to  Zillah,  who  instantly 
left  the  room. 

"  Doctor,"  said  the  General,  in  a  feeble  voice, 
as  soon  as  they  were  alone,  "1  must  know  the 
whole  truth.     Will  you  tell  it  to  me  frankly  ?" 

"  I  never  deceive  my  patients,"  was  the  answer. 

"Am  1  dangerously  ill?" 

"You  are." 

"  How  long  have  I  to  live?" 

"My  dear  Sir,  God  alone  can  answer  that 
question.  You  have  a  chance  for  life  yet.  Your 
sickness  may  take  a  favorable  turn,  and  we  may 
be  able  to  bring  you  arotmd  again." 

"But  the  chances  are  against  me,  you  think?" 

"We  must  be  prepared  for  the  worst,"  said 
the  doctor,  solemnly.  "  At  the  same  time,  there 
is  a  chance." 

"  Well,  suppose  that  the  turn  should  be  unfa- 
vorable, how  long  would  it  be,  do  you  think,  be- 
fore the  end?  I  have  much  to  attend  to,  and  it 
is  of  the  greatest  importance  that  I  should  know 
this." 

"Probably  a  month— pessibly  less,"  answered 
the  doctor,  gravely,  aftefr  a  moment's  thought ; 
"  that  is,  if  the  worst  shonld  take  place.  But  it 
is  impossible  to  speak  with  certainty  until  your 
symptoms  are  more  fully  developed." 

"  Thank  you,  doctor,  for  your  frankness ;  and 
now,  will  you  kindly  send  my  daiigliter  to  me  ?" 

"Remember,"  said  the  doctor,  doubtfully, 
"  that  it  is  of  the  greatest  possible  moment  that 
you  should  be  kept  free  from  all  excitement. 
Any  agitation  of  mind  will  surely  destroy  your 
last  chance. " 

"  But  I  must  see  her!"  answered  the  General, 
excitedly.  ' '  I  have  to  attend  to  something  which 
concerns  her.  It  is  her  future.  I  could  not  die 
easily,  or  rest  in  my  grave,  if  this  were  neglected. " 

Thus  far  the  General  had  been  calm,  but  the 
thought  of  Zillah  had  roused  him  into  a  danger- 
ous affitation.    The  doctor  saw  that  discussion 


84 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


I!  I 


I 


would  only  nK^^nvnfo  thift,  and  that  Mn  onlj' 
chanco  wiw  to  liiiinor  his  fancies.  So  lie  went 
out,  ntul  found  /iihih  iHicing  the  piiH.sago  in  n 
8tato  of  uncontrollublo  udtitiition.  ilu  reminded 
her  of  lier  proinino,  impresHed  on  her  the  necesHi- 
ty  of  caution,  and  sent  lier  to  liim.  She  crept 
softly  to  the  bedside,  and,  takiiiK  her  accuHtoined 
seat,  covered  his  hand  witli  kisses. 

"Sit  a  little  lower,  my  darling,"  said  the 
General,  "where  I  nr.iiy  see  your  face."  She 
obeyed,  still  holding  his  hand,  which  returned 
with  warmth  her  caressing  pressure. 

The  agitation  which  the  General  had  felt  at 
the  doctor's  information  had  now  grown  visibly 
stronger.  Tiiere  was  a  kind  of  feverish  excite- 
ment in  his  manner  which  seemed  to  indicate 
that  iiis  brain  was  affected.  One  idea  only  filled 
that  half-delirious  brain,  and  tiiis,  without  the 
slightest  warning,  ho  abruptly  began  to  commu- 
nicate to  his  daughter. 

"  You  know,  Zillah,"  said  he,  in  a  rapid,  eager 
tone  which  alarmed  her,  "the  dearest  wish  of 
my  heart  is  to  see  you  th' .  wife  of  Guy  Molyneux, 
the  son  of  my  old  frien  I.  1  betrothed  you  to 
him  five  years  ago.  You  remember  all  about  it, 
of  course.  Ho  visited  us  at  London.  Tiio  time 
for  the  Accomplishment  of  n.y  desire  has  now  ar- 
rived. I  received  a  letter  from  Lord  ( 'hetwynde 
on  the  day  of  my  accident,  telling  me  that  his 
son's  regiment  was  shortly  to  sail  for  India.  I 
intended  writing  to  ask  him  to  pay  us  a  visit  be- 
fore he  left;  but  now,"  he  added,  in  a  dreamy 
voice,  "  of  course  he  must  come,  and — he  must 
marry  you  before  ho  goes. " 

Any  thing  more  hon  ble,  more  abhorrent,  to 
Zillah  than  such  languaj^e,  at  such  a  time,  could 
not  be  conceived.  She  thought  he  was  raving. 
A  wild  exclamation  of  fear  and  remonstrance 
started  to  her  lips ;  but  she  remembered  the  doc- 
tor's warning,  and  by  a  mighty  effort  repressed 
it.  It  then  seemed  to  her  that  this  raving  delir- 
ium, if  resisted,  might  turn  to  madness  and  en- 
danger his  last  chance.  In  her  despair  she  found 
only  one  answer,  and  that  was  something  which 
might  soothe  him. 

"Yes,  dear  papa,"  she  said,  quietly;  "yes, 
we  will  ask  him  to  come  arid  see  us." 

"No,  no," cried  the  General,  with  feverish  im- 
patience. "  That  wiU  not  do.  You  must  marry 
him  at  once — to-day — to-morrow — do  you  hear  ? 
There  is  no  time  to  lose." 

"  But  I  must  stay  with  you,  dearest  papa,  you 
know,"  said  Zillah,  still  striving  to  soothe  him. 
"What  would  jou  do  without  your  little  girl? 
I  am  sure  yea  can  not  want  me  to  leave 
you." 

"Ah,  my  child!"  said  the  General,  mourn- 
fully, "I  am  going  to  leave  you.  The  doctor 
tells  me  that  I  have  but  a  short  time  to  live ;  and 
I  feel  that  what  he  says  is  true.  If  I  must  leave 
you,  my  darling,  I  can  not  leave  you  without  a 
protector." 

At  this  Zillah's  unaccustomed  self-control  gave 
way  utterly.  Overcome  by  the  horror  of  that 
revelation  and  the  anguish  of  that  discovery,  she 
flung  her  arms  around  him  and  clung  to  him  pas- 
sionately. 

"You  shall  not  go!"  she  moaned.  "You 
shall  not  go ;  or  if  you  do  you  must  take  me  with 
you.  I  can  not  live  without  you.  You  know 
that  I  can  not.     Oh,  papa!  papa!" 

'X^he  tones  of  her  voice,  which  were  wailed  out 


in  a  wild,  despairing  cry,  rcnclied  the  ears  of  the 
doctor,  who  at  once  hurried  in. 

"  What  is  this?"  he  said,  sliarjily  and  sternly, 
to  Zillah.     "Is  this  keeping  your  promise?" 

"Oh,  doctor!"  said  /illah,  imploringly,  "I 
did  not  mean  to — I  could  not  help  it — but  tell  m<! 
— it  is  not  true,  is  it?  Tell  mo  that  my  father 
is  not  going  to  leave  me  I" 

"  I  will  tell  you  this, "  said  ho,  gravely.  "You 
are  destroying  every  chance  of  his  recovery  by 
your  vehemence." 

Zillah  h>oked  up  at  him  with  an  expression  of 
agony  on  her  face  such  as,  accustomed  as  he  was 
to  scones  of  suflering,  he  had  but  seldom  en- 
countered. 

"  I've  killed  him,  then !"  she  faltered. 

The  doctor  put  his  hand  kindly  on  her  shoul- 
der. "I  trust  not,  my  poor  child,"  said  he; 
"but  it  is  my  duty  to  warn  you  of  tlie  conse- 
quences of  giving  way  to  excessive  grief. " 

"Oh,  doctor!  you  arc  quite  right,  and  I  will 
try  very  hard  not  to  give  way  again. " 

During  this  conversation,  which  was  low  and 
hurried.  General  I'omeroy  lay  without  hearing 
any  thing  of  what  they  were  saying.  His  ]i\)H 
moved,  and  his  hands  picked  at  the  bed-clothes 
convulsively.  Only  one  idea  was  in  his  mind — 
the  accomplishment  of  his  wishes.  His  daugh- 
ter's grief  seemed  to  have  no  effect  on  him  what- 
ever.    Indeed,  he  did  not  appear  to  notice  it. 

"Speak  to  her,  doctor,"  said  he,  feebly,  as  he 
heard  their  voices.  "  Tell  her  I  can  not  die  hap- 
py unless  she  is  married — I  can  not  leave  hei 
alone  in  the  world." 

The  doctor  looked  surprised.  "What  does 
he  mean  ?"  he  said,  taking  Zillah  aside.  "What 
is  this  fancy  ?    Is  there  any  thing  in  it  ?" 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  know,"  said  Zillah.  "  It  is 
certainly  on  his  mind,  and  he  can't  be  argued  or 
humored  out  of  it.  It  is  an  arrangement  made 
some  years  ago  between  him  and  Lord  Chetwynde 
that  when  I  grew  up  I  should  marry  his  son,  and 
he  has  just  been  telling  me  that  he  wishes  it  car- 
ried out  now.  Oh !  what — what  shall  I  do  ?" 
she  added,  despairingly.  "Can't  you  do  some- 
thing, doctor?" 

"I  will  speak  to  him,"  said  the  latter;  and, 
approaching  the  bed,  he  bent  over  the  General, 
and  said,  in  a  low  voice : 

"  General  Pomeroy,  you  know  that  the  family 
physician  is  often  a  kind  of  father-cotifessor  as 
well.  Now  I  do  not  wish  to  intrude  upon  your 
private  affairs ;  but  from  what  you  have  said  I 
perceive  that  there  is  something  on  your  mind, 
and  if  I  can  be  of  any  assistance  to  you  I  shall 
be  only  too  happy.  Have  you  any  objection  to 
tell  me  what  it  is  that  is  troubling  you?" 

While  the  doctor  spoke  the  General's  eyes 
were  fixed  upon  Zillah  with  feverish  anxiety. 
"Tell  her,"  he  murmured,  "that  she  must  con- 
sent at  once — at  once,"  he  repeated,  in  a  more 
excited  tone. 

"Consent  to  what?" 

"  To  this  marriage  that  I  have  planned  for  her. 
She  knows.  It  is  with  the  son  of  my  old  friend. 
Lord  Chetwynde.  He  is  a  fine  lad,  and  comes 
of  a  good  stock.  I  knew  his  father  before  him. 
I  have  watched  him  closely  for  the  last  five  years. 
He  will  take  care  of  her.  He  will  make  her  a 
good  husband.  And  I — shall  be  able  to  die — in 
peace.  But  it  must  be  done — immediately — for 
he  is  going — to  India, " 


Mil)  h 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


sr, 


I  will 


The  General  spoke  in  a  very  feeble  tone,  and 
with  fVui|iieiit  paiixeM. 

"  And  do  you  wish  your  daughter  to  go  with 
him?  She  is  too  yo'^ng  to  bo  cxi^sed  to  the 
dangers  of  Indian  life." 

This  idea  seemed  to  strike  the  General  very 
forcibly.  For  some  miiiute.s  he  did  not  nn.swef, 
and  it  was  witli  ditticulty  that  he  could  collect 
liis  thoughts.     At  last  ho  answered,  slowly  : 

"That  is  true — but  she  need  not  accompany 
him.  Let  her  stay  with  me — till  all  is  over — then 
she  can  go — to  l^hetwynde.  It  will  be  her  nat- 
ural hone.  She  will  find  in  my  old  friend  a  sec- 
(md  father.  She  can  remain  with  him — till  iier 
husband  returns." 

A  long  jjause  followed.  "  Besides,"  he  re- 
sumed, in  a  fainter  voice,  "there  are  other  things. 
I  can  not  exi)lain — they  are  ])rivate — they  con- 
com  the  affairs  of  others.  Hut  if  Zillah  were  to 
refuse  to  marry  him — she  would  lose  one-half  of 
her  fortune.  So  you  can  understand  my  anx- 
iety. She  has  not  a  relative  in  the  world — to 
whom  I  could  leave  her." 

Here  the  General  stopped,  utterly  exhausted 
by  the  fatigue  of  8|)eakiiig  so  much.  As  for  the 
doctor,  he  sat  for  a  time  involved  in  deep  thought. 
Zillah  stood  there  pale  and  agitated,  looking  now 
at  her  father  and  now  at  the  doctor,  while  a  new 
and  deeper  anguish  came  over  her  heart.  After 
a  while  he  rose  and  quietly  motioned  to  Zillah  to 
follow  him  to  the  adjoining  room. 

"My  dear  child,"  said  he,  kindly,  when  they 
had  arrived  there,  "your  father  is  excited,  but 
yet  is  quite  sane.  His  plan  seems  to  be  one 
which  he  has  been  cherishing  for  years ;  and  he 
has  so  thoroughly  set  his  heart  upon  it  that  it  now 
is  evidently  his  solo  idea.  I  do  not  see  what  else 
can  be  done  than  to  comply  with  his  wishes." 

"What!"  cried  Zillah,  aghast. 

"To  refuse,"  said  the  doctor,  "might  be  fa- 
tal.    It  would  throw  him  into  a  paroxysm." 

"Oh,  doctor!"  moaned  Zillah.  "What  do 
you  mean  ?  You  can  not  be  in  earnest.  What 
— to  do  such  a  thing  when  darling  papa  is — is 
dying!" 

Sobs  choked  her  utterance.  She  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands  and  sank  into  a  ckair. 

"  He  is  not  yet  so  bad,"  said  the  doctor,  earn- 
estly, "but  he  is  certainly  in  a  critical  state; 
and  unless  it  is  absolutely  impossible — unless  it 
is  too  abhorrent  to  think  of — unless  any  calamity 
is  better  than  this — I  would  advise  you  to  try 
and  think  if  you  can  not  bring  yourself  to — to  in- 
dulge his  wish,  wild  as  it  may  seem  to  you.  There, 
my  dear,  I  am  deeply  sony  for  you ;  but  I  am 
honest,  and  say  what  I  think." 

For  a  long  time  Zillah  sat  in  silence,  strug- 
gling Avith  her  emotions.  The  doctor's  words 
impressed  her  deeply ;  but  the  thing  which  he 
advised  was  horrible  to  her — abhorrent  beyond 
words.  But  then  there  was  her  father  lying  so 
near  to  death — whom,  perhaps,  her  self-sacrifice 
might  save,  and  whom  certainly  her  selfishness 
would  destroy.  She  could  not  hesitate.  It  was 
a  bitter  decision,  but  she  made  it.  She  rose  to 
her  feet  paler  than  ever,  but  quite  calm. 

"Doctor,"  said  she,  "I  have  decided.  It  is 
horrible  beyond  words ;  but  I  will  do  it,  or  any 
thing,  for  his  sake.  I  would  die  to  save  him ; 
and  this  is  something  worse  than  death. " 

She  was  calm  and  cold ;  her  voice  seemed  un- 
natural ;  her  eyes  were  tearless. 


"  It  seems  very  hard,"  she  murmured,  after  h 
pause;  "I  never  saw  Captain  Molyneux  bit 
once,  and  I  was  only  ten  years  old." 

"  How  old  are  you  now?"  asked  the  docto.*, 
who  knew  not  what  to  say  to  this  poor  stricken 
heart. 

"  Fifteen." 

"I'oor  child!"  said  he,  compasAionately ; 
"the  trials  of  life  are  coming  upon  you  early; 
but,"  he  added,  with  a  doiperate  effort  at  con- 
dolence, "  do  not  be  so  despairing ;  whatever 
may  be  the  result,  you  are,  after  all,  in  the  path 
of  duty  ;  and  that  is  the  safest  and  the  best  for 
us  all  in  the  end,  however  hard  it  may  seem  to 
bo  in  the  present." 

Just  then  the  General's  voice  interrupted  his 
little  homilv,  sounding  querulously  and  impa- 
tiently:  "Zillah!  Zillah!" 

She  sprang  to  his  bedside :  "  Here  I  am,  dear 
papa." 

"  Will  vou  do  as  I  wish  ?"  he  asked,  abruptly. 

"Yes,"  said  Zillah,  with  an  effort  at  firmness 
which  cost  her  dear.  Saying  this,  she  kissed 
him ;  and  the  beam  of  pleasure  which  at  this 
word  lighted  up  the  wan  face  of  the  sick  man 
touched  Zillah  to  the  heart.  She  felt  tUlit,  come 
what  might,  she  had  received  her  reward. 

"My  sweetest,  dutiful  child,"  said  the  Gen- 
eral, tenderly;  "you  have  made  me  happy,  my 
darling.  Now  get  your  desk  and  write  for  him 
at  oi.  e.     You  must  not  lose  tims,  my  child.'' 

This  unremitting  pressure  upon  her  gave  Zil- 
lah a  new  struggle,  but  the  General  exhibited 
such  feverish  impatience  that  she  dared  not  re- 
sist. So  she  went  to  a  Davenport  which  stood 
in  the  corner  of  the  room,  and  saying,  quietly, 
"I  will  write  here,  papa,"  she  seated  herself, 
with  her  back  toward  him. 

"  Are  you  ready  ?"  he  asked. 

"Yes,  papa." 

The  General  then  began  to  dictate  to  her  what 
she  was  to  write.     It  was  as  follows : 

"My  dear  old  Friend, — I  think  it  will 
cause  you  some  grief  to  hear  that  our  long 
friendship  is  about  to  be  broken  up.  My  days, 
I  fear,  are  numbered." 

Zillah  stifled  the  sobs  that  choked  her,  and 
wrote  bravely  on : 

"You  know  the  sorrow  which  has  blighted  my 
life ;  and  I  feel  that  I  could  go  joyfully  to  my 
beloved,  my  deeply  mourned  wife,  if  I  could  feel 
that  I  was  leaving  my  child— he'' child  and  mine — 
happily  provided  for.  For  this  purpose  I  should 
like  Guy,  before  he  leaves  for  India,  to  fulfill  his 
promise,  and,  by  marrying  my  daughter,  give  me 
the  comfort  of  knowing  that  I  leave  her  in  the 
hands  of  a  husband  upon  whom  I  can  confident- 
ly rely." 

But  at  this  point  Zillah's  self-control  gave  way. 
She  broke  down  utterly,  and,  bowing  her  head 
in  her  hands  on  the  desk,  burst  forth  into  a  pas- 
sion of  sobs. 

The  poor  child  could  surely  not  be  blamed. 
Her  nature  was  impassioned  and  undisciplined; 
from  her  birth  eveiy  whim  had  been  humored, 
and  her  wildest  fancies  indulged  to  the  utmost ; 
and  now  suddenly  upon  this  petted  idol,  who  had 
been  always  guarded  so  carefully  from  the  slight- 
est disappointment,  there  descended  the  storm- 
cloud  of  sorrow,  and  that  too  not  gradually,  but 
almost  in  one  moment.  Her  love  for  her  father 
was  a  passion ;  and  he  was  to  be  taken  from  her, 


ifT-nj-^i^TT!''.  .'■'l-piW.IJISIJj" 


r^W 


86 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


ill' 


1^ 


and  she  was  to  be  given  into  the  hands  of  entire 
strangers.  The  apparent  calmness,  ahnost  indif- 
ference,'with  which  lier  father  made  tiiese  ar- 
rangements, cut  her  to  the  quick.  8he  was  too 
young  to  !'  aow  how  much  of  tiiis  eagerness  was 
attributable  entirely  to  disease.  He  appeared  to 
her  as  thinking  of  only  his  own  wishes,  and  show- 
ing no  consideration  whatever  for  her  own  crush- 
ing grief,  and  no  appreciation  of  the  strength  of 
her  affection  for  him.  The  self-sacrificing  fa- 
ther had  changed  into  the  most  selfish  of  men, 
who  had  not  one  thought  for  her  feelings. 

"Oh,  Zillah!"  cried  her  father,  reproachfully, 
in  answer  to  her  last  outburst  of  grief.  fShe  rose 
and  went  to  his  bedside,  struggling  violently  with 
her  emotion. 

"  I  can  not  write  this,  dearest  papa,"  she  said, 
in  a  tremulous  voice ;  "I  have  promised  to  do 
just  as  you  wish,  and  I  will  keep  my  word ;  but 
indeed,  indeed,  I  can  not  write  this  letter.  Will 
it  not  do  as  well  if  Hilda  writes  it?" 

"To  bo  sure,  to  be  sure,"  said  the  General, 
who  took  no  notice  of  her  distress.  "  Hilda  will 
do  it,  and  then  my  little  girl  can  come  and  sit 
beside  her  father. " 

Hilda  was  accordingly  sent  for.  She  glided 
noiselessly  in  and  took  her  place  at  the  Daven- 
port ;  wliile  Zillah,  sitting  by  her  father,  buried 
her  head  in  the  bed-clothes,  his  feeble  hands  the 
while  phiying  nervously  with  the  long,  straggling 
locks  of  her  hair  which  scattered  themselves  over 
the  bed.  The  letter  was  soon  finished,  for  it  con- 
tained little  more  than  what  has  already  been 
given,  except  the  reiterated  injunction  that  Guy 
should  make  all  hr.ate  to  reach  I'omeroy  Court. 
It  was  then  nent  off  to  the  post,  to  the  great  de- 
light of  the  General,  whose  mind  became  more 
wandering,  now  that  the  strain  whicli  had  been 
placed  ujion  it  was  removed. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  in  a  flighty  way,  and  with  an 
eager  impetuosity  which  showed  that  his  delir- 
ium had  increased,  "we  must  think  of  the 
wedding — my  darling  must  have  a  grand  wed- 
ding," he  murmured  to  himself  in  a  low  whis- 
per. 

A  shudder  ran  through  Zillah  as  she  sat  by  his 
side,  but  not  a  sound  escaped  her,  t'he  looked 
up  in  terror.  Had  eve'-y  ray  of  reason  left  her 
father?  Was  she  to  sacrifice  herself  on  so  hid- 
eous an  altar  without  even  the  satisfaction  of 
knowing  that  she  had  given  him  pleasure  ?  Then 
she  thought  that  perhaps  her  father  was  living 
again  in  the  past,  and  confounding  this  fearful 
thing  which  he  was  planning  for  her  with  his  own 
joyous  wedding.  Tears  flowed  afresh,  but  si- 
lently, at  the  thought  of  the  contrast.  Often  had 
her  ayah  delighted  her  childish  imagination  by 
her  glowing  descriptions  of  the  magnificence  of 
that  wedding,  where  the  festivities  had  lasted  for 
a  week,  and  the  arrangements  were  all  made  on 
a  scale  of  Oriental  spleiidor.  She  loved  to  des- 
cant upon  the  beauty  of  the  bride,  the  richness 
of  her  attire,  the  magnificence  of  her  jewels,  the 
grandeur  of  the  guests,  the  splendor  of  the  whole 
display — until  Zillah  had  insensibly  learned  to 
think  all  this  the  necessary  adjuncts  of  a  wed- 
ding, and, had  built  many  a  day-dream  about  the 
pomp  which  should  surround  hers,  when  the  glo- 
rious knight  whom  the  fairy  tales  had  led  her  to 
expect  should  come  to  claim  her  hand.  Hut  at 
this  time  It  was  not  the  sacrifice  of  all  this  that 
was  wringing  her  heart.     She  gave  it  not  even  a 


sigh.  It  was  rather  the  thought  that  this  mar- 
riage, which  now  seemed  inevitable,  was  t)  tiike 
place  here,  while  her  heart  was  wrung  with  anxi- 
ety on  his  account — here  in  this  room — hy  that 
bedside,  which  her  fears  told  her  might  be  a  bed 
of  death.  There  lay  her  father,  her  only  friend 
— the  one  for  whom  she  would  lay  down  her  life, 
and  to  soothe  whose  delirium  she  had  consented 
to  this  abhorrent  sacrifice  of  herself.  Thd  mar- 
riage thus  planned  was  to  take  place  liius;  it 
was  to  be  a  hideous,  a  ghastly  mockery  —  a 
frightful  violence  to  the  solemnity  of  sorrow. 
She  was  not  to  be  married — she  was  to  be  sold. 
The  circumstances  of  that  old  betrothal  had 
never  been  explained  to  her;  but  she  kv^v  that 
money  was  in  some  way  connected  with  it,  and 
that  she  was  virtually  bought  and  sold  like  a 
slave,  without  any  will  of  her  own.  Such  bitter 
thoughts  as  these  filled  her  mind  as  she  sat  there 
by  her  father's  side. 

Presently  her  father  spoke  again.  "  Have  you 
any  dresses,  Zillah  ?" 

"  Plenty,  papa." 

"  Oh,  but  1  mean  a  wedding-dress — a  fine  new 
dress;  white  satin  my  darling  wore ;  how  beau- 
tiful she  looked !  and  a  veil  you  must  have,  and 
plenty  of  jewels  —  pearls  and  diamonds.  My 
pet  will  be  a  lovely  bride. " 

Every  one  of  these  words  was  a  stab,  and  Zil- 
lah was  dumb ;  but  her  father  noticed  nothin;; 
of  this.  It  wtiS  madness,  hut,  like  many  cases 
of  madness,  it  Vfas  very  coherent. 

"Send  for  yt'ur  ayah,  dear,"  he  continued; 
"I  must  Uilk  10  her  —  about  your  wedding- 
dress." 

Zillah  rang  the  bell.  As  soon  as  the  woman 
appeared  the  General  turned  to  her  with  his 
usual  feverish  manner. 

"Nurse,"  said  he,  "Miss  Pomeroy  is  to  be 
married  at  once.  You  must  see — that  she.  has 
every  thing  prepared — suitably — and  of  the  very 
best." 

The  ayah  stood  speechless  with  amazement. 
This  feeling  was  increased  when  Zillah  said,  in  a 
cold  monotone : 

"  Don't  look  surprised,  nurse.  It's  quite  true. 
I  am  to  be  married  within  a  day  or  two. " 

Her  master's  absurdities  the  ayah  could  ac- 
count for  on  the  ground  of  delirium  ;  but  was 
"Little  Missy"  mad  too?  Perhaps  sorrow  had 
turned  her  brain,  she  thought.  At  any  rate,  it 
would  be  best  to  humor  them. 

"Mis.sy  had  a  white  silk  down  from  London 
last  week,  vSir." 

"Not  satin?  A  wedding-dress  should  be 
of  satin,"  said  the  General. 

"It  does  not  matter,  so  that  it  is  all  white," 
said  the  nurse,  with  decision. 

"Doesn't  it?  Very  well,"  said  the  General. 
"  But  she  must  have  a  veil,  nurse,  and  plenty  of 
jewels.  She  must  look  like  my  darling.  You 
remember,  nurse,  how  she  looked." 

"Indeed  I  do,  sahib,  and  you  may  leave  all 
to  me.  I  will  see  that  Missy  is  as  fine  and  grand 
as  any  of  them." 

The  ayah  began  already  to  feel  excited,  and  tp 
fall  in  with  this  wild  proposal.  Thi.  very  men- 
tion of  dress  had  excited  her  Indian  love  of 
finery. 

"That  is  right,"  said  the  General;  "attend 
to  it  nil.  Spare  no  expense.  Donit  you  go,  my 
child,"  he  continued,  as  Zillah  rose  and  walked 


w 


THE  CRYrTOGRAM. 


37 


shudderingly  to  the  window.  "I  think  I  can 
sleep,  now  that  my  mind  is  at  eivse.  Stay  by 
me,  my  darling  child. " 

"Oh,  papa,  do  you  think  I  would  leave  you?" 
said  Zillah,  and  she  came  back  to  the  bed. 

The  doctor,  who  had  been  waiting  until  the 
General  should  become  a  little  calmer,  now  ad- 
ministered an  anodyne,  and  he  fell  asleep,  his 
hand  clasped  in  Zillah's,  while  she,  fearful  of 
making  the  slightest  movement,  sat  motionless 
and  despairing  far  into  the  night. 


CHAPTER  X. 

A  WEDDING  IN  EXTREMIS. 

Two  days  passed ;  on  the  second  Guy  Moly- 
neux  arrived.  Lord  Chetwynde  was  ill,  and 
could  not  travel.  He  sent  a  letter,  however, 
full  of  earnest  and  hopeful  sympathy.  He 
would  not  believe  that  things  were  as  bad  as  his 
old  friend  feared  ;  the  instant  that  he  could  leave 
he  would  come  up  to  I  omeroy  Court ;  or  if  by 
God's  providence  the  worst  should  ta''.e  place,  he 
would  instantly  fetch  Zillah  to  Chetwynde  (.'as- 
tle ;  and  the  General  might  rely  upon  it  that,  so 
far  ns  love  and  tenderness  could  supply  a  father's 
place,  she  should  not  feel  her  loss. 

On  Guy's  arrival  he  was  shown  into  the  library. 
Limcheon  was  laid  there,  and  the  housekeeper 
apologized  for  Miss  Pomeroy's  absence.  Guy 
took  a  chair  and  waited  for  a  while,  meditating 
on  the  time  when  he  had  last  seen  the  girl  who 
ill  a  short  time  was  to  be  tied  to  him  for  life. 
The  eveiu  was  excessively  repugnant  to  him, 
even  though  he  did  not  at  all  realize  its  fidl  im- 
portance; and  he  would  have  given  any  thing  to 
get  out  of  it ;  but  his  father's  command  was 
sacred,  and  for  years  he  had  been  bound  by  his 
father's  word.  Escape  was  utterly  impossible. 
The  entrance  of  the  clergyman,  who  seemed 
more  intent  on  the  luncheon  than  any  thing 
else,  did  not  lessen  Guy's  feelings  of  repug- 
nance. He  said  but  little,  and  sank  into  a  fit 
of  abstraction,  from  which  he  was  roused  by  a 
message  that  the  General  would  like  to  see  him. 
He  hurried  up  stairs. 

The  General  smiled  faintly,  and  greeted  him 
with  as  much  warmth  as  his  weak  and  prostrated 
condition  would  allow. 

"Guy,  my  boy,"  sail  he,  feebly,  "I  am  very 
glad  to  see  you. ' 

To  Guy  the  General  seemed  like  a  doomed 
man,  and  the  discovery  gave  him  a  great  shock, 
for  tie  had  scarcely  anticipated  any  thing  so  bad 
as  this.  In  spite  of  this,  however,  he  exi)ressed 
a  hope  that  the  General  might  yet  recover,  and 
be  spared  many  years  to  them. 

"No,"  said  the  General,  sadly  and  wearily; 
"no;  my  days  are  numbered.  I  must  die,  my 
hoy ;  but  I  shall  die  in  jiejice,  if  I  feel  that  I  do 
not  leave  my  child  uncared  for." 

Guy,  in  spite  of  his  dislike  and  repugnance, 
felt  deeply  moved. 

"You  need  have  no  fear  of  ihat.  Sir,"  he 
went  on  to  say,  in  solemn,  measured  tones,  "  I 
Rolemnly  promise  you  that  no  unhappiness  shall 
ever  reach  her  if  I  can  help  it.  To  the  end  of 
my  life  I  will  try  to  requite  to  her  the  kindness 
that  you  have  shown  to  us.  My  father  feels  as 
I  do,  and  he  begged  rae  to  assure  you,  if  he  is 


not  able  to  see  you  again,  as  ho  hopes  to  do, 
that  the  instant  your  daughter  needs  his  care  he 
will  himself  take  her  to  Clictwynde  Castle,  and 
will  watch  over  her  with  the  same  care  and  af- 
fection that  you  yourself  would  bestow  ;  and  she 
shall  leave  his  home  only  for  mine." 

The  General  pressed  his  hand  feebly.  "God 
bless  you ! "  he  said,  in  a  faint  voice. 

Suddenly  a  low  sob  broke  the  silence  which 
followed.  Turning  hastily,  Guy  saw  in  the  dim 
twilight  of  the  sick-room  what  he  had  not  befoie 
observed.  It  was  a  girl's  figure  crouching  at  the 
foot  of  the  bed,  her  head  buried  in  the  clothes. 
He  lojked  at  her — his  heart  told  him  who  it  was 
— but  he  knew  not  what  to  say. 

The  General  also  had  heard  that  sob.  It  raised 
no  pity  and  compassion  in  him ;  it  was  simply 
some  new  stimulus  to  the  one  idea  of  his  distem- 
pered brain. 

"  What,  Zillah !"  he  said,  in  surprise.  "You 
here  yet  ?    I  thought  you  had  gone  to  get  ready. " 

Still  the  kneeling  figin'e  did  not  move. 

"Zillah,"  said  the  General,  querulously,  and 
with  an  excitement  in  his  feeble  voice  wliich 
showed  how  readily  he  might  lapse  into  com- 
plete delirium — "  Zillah,  my  child,  be  (piiek. 
There  is  no  time  to  lose.  Go  and  get  ready  for 
your  wedding.  Don't  you  hear  me?  Go  and 
dress  yourself." 

"Oh,  papa!"  moaned  Zillah,  in  a  voice  which 
pierced  to  the  inmost  heart  of  Guy,  "will  it  not 
do  as  I  am  ?  Do  not  ask  me  to  put  on  finery  at 
a  time  like  this."  Her  voice  was  one  of  utter 
anguish  and  despair. 

"  A  time  like  this?  '  said  the  General,  rousing 
himself  somewhat — "  what  do  you  mean,  chili!  ? 
I>oes  not  tlie  Bible  say,  Like  as  a  bride  adorn- 
eth  herself — for  her  husband — and  ever  shall  be 
— world  without  end — amen — yes — white  satin 
and  pearls,  my  child — oh  yes — white  peails  and 
satin — we  are  all  ready — where  are  you,  my  dar- 
•ing?"  Another  sob  was  the  only  reply  to  this 
incoherent  speech.  Guy  stood  as  if  petrified. 
In  his  journey  here  he  had  simply  tried  to  mus- 
ter up  his  own  resolution,  and  to  fortify  his  own 
heart.  He  had  not  given  one  thought  to  tliis 
poor  despairing  child.  Her  sorrow,  her  anguish, 
her  despair,  now  went  to  his  heart.  Yet  ho 
knew  not  what  to  do.  How  gladly  he  would  have 
made  his  escape  from  this  horrible  mockery — for 
her  sake  as  well  as  for  his  own !  Hut  for  such 
escape  he  saw  plainly  there  was  no  possibility. 
That  delirious  mind,  in  its  frenzy,  was  too  in- 
tent upon  its  one  purpose  to  admit  of  this.  He 
himself  also  felt  a  strange  and  ])ainful  sense  of 
guilt.  Was  not  he  to  a  great  extent  the  cause 
of  this,  though  the  unwilling  cause  ?  Ah  !  he 
thought,  remorsefully,  can  wrong  Imj  right?  and 
can  any  thing  justify  such  a  desecration  as  this 
both  of  marriage  and  of  deat)<  ?  At  that  mo- 
ment Chetwynde  faded  aw:._v,  and  to  have  saved 
it  was  as  nothing.  Willingly  would  he  have 
given  up  every  thing  if  he  could  iu)W  have  said 
to  this  poor  child — who  thus  crouched  down, 
crushed  by  a  woman's  sorrow  before  she  had 
known  a  woman's  years — "F.irewU.  You  are 
free.  I  will  give  you  a  brother's  love  and  claim 
nothing  in  return.  I  will  give  back  all,  and  go 
forth  penniless  into  the  battle  of  life." 

But  the  Genenil  again  interrupted  thera,  speak- 
ing impatiently:  "What  are  you  waiting  for? 
Is  not  Zillah  getting  ready  ?" 


I. 


88 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


ii 


fia 


■J 


Guy  scarcely  knew  what  he  was  doing ;  but, 
obeying  the  instincts  of  his  pity,  he  bent  down 
and  whispered  to  Zillah,  "  My  poor  child,  I  pity 
you,  and  sympathize  with  you  more  than  words 
can  tell.  It  is  an  awful  thing  for  you.  But  can 
you  not  rouse  yourself?  Perhaps  it  would  calm 
your  father.     He  is  getting  too  excited. " 

Zillah  shrunk  away  as  thougli  he  were  pollu- 
tion, and  Guy  at  this  resumed  his  former  place 
in  sadness  and  in  desperation,  with  no  other  idea 
than  to  wait  for  the  liud. 

"Zillah!  Zillah!"  cried  the  General,  almost 
fiercely. 

At  this  Zillah  sprang  up,  and  rushed  out  of 
the  room.  She  hurried  up  stairs,  and  found 
the  ayah  in  her  dressing-room  with  Hilda.  In 
the  next  room  her  white  silk  was  laid  out,  her 
wreath  and  veil  beside  it. 

"  Here's  my  jewel  come  to  be  dressed  in  her 
wedding-dress,"  said  the  ayah,  joyously. 

"Be quiet! "cried Zillah, passionately.  "Don't 
dare  to  say  any  thing  like  that  to  me ;  and  you 
may  put  all  that  trash  away,  for  I'm  not  going 
to  be  married  at  all.  I  can't  do  it,  and  I  won't. 
I  hate  him!  I  hate  him!  I  hate  him!  I  hate 
him !" 

These  words  she  hissed  out  with  the  venom 
of  a  serpent.  Her  attendants  tried  remonstrance, 
but  in  vain.  Hilda  i)ointed  out  to  her  the  hand- 
some dress,  but  with  no  greater  success.  Vain- 
ly they  tried  to  plead,  to  coax,  and  to  persuade. 
All  this  only  seemed  to  strengthen  her  determ- 
ination. At  last  she  threw  herself  upon  the 
floor,  like  a  passionate  child,  in  a  paroxysm  of 
rage  and  grief. 

The  unwonted  self-control  which  for  the  last 
few  days  she  had  imposed  upon  herself  now  told 
upon  her  in  the  violence  of  the  reaction  which 
had  set  in.  When  once  she  had  allowed  the 
barriers  to  be  broken  down,  all  else  gave  \vay  to 
the  onset  of  passion ;  and  the  presence  and  re- 
monstrances of  the  ayah  and  Hilda  only  made  it 
worse.  She  forgot  utterly  her  father's  condi- 
tion ;  she  showed  herself  now  as  selfish  in  her 
passion  as  he  had  shown  himself  in  his  delirium. 
Nothing  could  be  done  to  stop  her.  Tiie  otliers, 
familiar  with  these  outbreaks,  retired  to  the  ad- 
joining room  and  waited. 

Meanwhile  the  others  were  waiting  also  in  the 
room  below.  The  doctor  was  there,  and  sat  by 
his  patient,  exerting  all  his  art  to  poothe  him 
and  curb  his  eagerness.  The  General  refused 
some  medicine  which  he  ottered,  and  declared 
with  passion  that  he  would  take  nothing  what- 
ever till  the  wedding  was  over.  To  have  used 
force  would  ha've  been  fatal ;  and  so  the  doctor 
had  to  humor  his  patient.  The  family  solicitor 
was  there  with  the  marriage  settlements,  which 
had  been  prepared  in  great  haste.  Guy  and  the 
clei'gyman  sat  apart  in  thoughtful  silence. 

Half  an  hour  passed,  and  Zillah  did  not  ap- 
pear. On  the  General's  asking  for  her  the  cler- 
gyman hazarded  a  remark  intended  to  be  pleas- 
ant, about  ladies  on  such  occasions  needing  some 
time  to  adorn  themselves — a  little  out  of  place 
under  the  circumstances,  but  it  fortunately  fell 
in  with  the  sick  man's  humor,  and  satisfied  him 
for  the  moment. 

Three-quarters  of  an  hour  passed.  "  Surely 
she  must  be  ready  now,"  said  the  General,  who 
grew  more  excited  and  irritable  every  moment. 
A  messenger  wao  thereupon  dispatched  for  her, 


but  she  found  the  door  bolted,  and  amidst  the 
outcry  and  confusion  in  the  room  could  only  dis- 
tinguish that  Miss  Pomeroy  was  not  ready.  This 
message  she  delivered  without  entering  into  par- 
ticulars. 

An  hour  passed,  and  another  messenger  went, 
with  the  same  result.  It  then  became  impossi- 
ble to  soothe  the  General  any  longer.  Guy  also 
grew  impatient,  for  he  had  to  leave  by  that 
evening's  train ;  and  if  the  thing  had  to  be  it 
must  be  done  soon.  He  began  to  hope  that  it 
might  be  postponed — that  Zillah  might  not  come 
— and  then  he  would  have  to  leave  the  thing  un- 
finished. But  then  he  thought  of  his  father's 
command,  and  the  General's  desire — of  his  r  wn 
promise — of  the  fact  that  it  must  be  done- -of 
the  danger  to  the  General  if  it  were  not  donti. 
Between  these  conflicting  feelings — his  desire  to 
escape,  and  his  desire  to  fulfill  what  he  consid- 
ered his  obligations — his  brain  grew  confused, 
and  he  sat  there  impatient  for  the  end — to  see 
what  it  might  turn  out  to  be. 

Another  quarter  of  an  hour  passed.  The  Gen- 
eral's excitement  grew  worse,  and  was  deepening 
into  frenzy.  Dr.  Cowell  looked  more  and  more 
anxious,  and  at  last,  shrewdly  suspecting  the 
cause  of  the  delay,  determined  bin  "If  to  go  and 
take  it  in  hand.  He  accordingly  le.  his  patient, 
and  was  just  crossing  the  room,  when  his  prog- 
ress was  arrested  by  the  General's  springing  up 
with  a  kind  of  convulsive  start,  and  jumping  out 
of  bed,  declaring  wildly  and  incoherently  that 
something  must  be  wrong,  and  that  he  himself 
would  go  and  bring  Zillah.  The  doctor  had  to 
turn  again  to  his  patient.  The  effbrt  was  a 
spasmodic  one,  and  the  General  was  soon  put 
back  again  to  bed,  where  he  lay  groaning  and 
panting ;  while  the  doctor,  finding  that  he  could 
not  leave  him  even  for  an  instant,  looked  around 
for  some  one  to  send  in  his  place.  Who  could 
it  be?  Neither  the  lawyer  nor  the  clergyman 
seemed  suitable.  There  veas  no  one  left  but 
Guy,  who  seemed  to  the  doctor,  from  his  face 
and  manner,  to  be  capable  of  dealing  with  any 
difficulty.  So  he  called  Guy  to  him,  and  hur- 
riedly whispered  to  him  the  state  of  things. 

"  If  the  General  has  to  wait  any  longer,  ho 
will  die,"  said  the  doctor.  "  You'll  have  to  go 
and  bring  her.  You're  the  only  person.  You 
must.  Tell  her  that  her  father  lias  already  had 
one  fit,  and  that  every  moment  destroys  his  last 
chance  of  life.  She  must  either  decide  to  come 
at  once,  or  else  sacrifice  him." 

He  then  rang  the  bell,  and  ordered  the  seiTant 
to  lead  Captain  Molyneux  to  Miss  Pomeroy. 
Guy  was  thus  forced  to  be  an  actor  where  his 
highest  desire  was  to  be  passive.  There  was  no 
alternative.  In  that  moment  all  his  future  was 
involved.  He  saw  it ;  he  knew  it ;  but  he  did 
not  shrink.  Honor  bound  him  to  this  marriage, 
hateful  as  it  was.  The  other  actor  in  the  scene 
detested  it  a»  much  as  he  did,  but  there  was  no 
help  for  it.  (^ould  he  sit  passive  and  let  the  Gen- 
eral die?  The  marriage,  after  all,  ho  thought, 
had  to  come  oft";  it  was  terrible  to  have  it  now; 
but  then  the  last  chance  of  the  General's  life  was 
dependent  upon  this  marriage.  What  could  he 
do? 

What  ?  A  rapid  survey  of  his  whole  situation 
decided  him.  He  would  perform  what  he  con- 
sidered his  vow.  He  would  do  iiis  part  toward 
saving  the  General's  life,  though  that  part  was 


Vf, 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


39 


80  hard.  He  was  calm,  therefore,  and  self-pos- 
sessed, as  the  servant  entered  and  led  the  way  to 
Ziliah's  ajmrtments.  The  servant  on  receiving 
the  order  grinned  in  spite  of  the  solemnity  of  the 
occasion.  He  had  a  pretty  clear  idea  of  the 
state  of  things ;  he  was  well  accustomed  to  what 
was  styled,  in  the  servants'  hall,  "Missy's  tan- 
tnims;"  and  he  wondered  to  himself  how  Guy 
would  ever  manage  her.  He  was  too  good  a 
ser\'ant,  however,  to  let  his  feelings  be  seen,  and 
so  he  led  the  way  demurely,  and  knocking  at  Zil- 
iah's door,  annoimced : 

"Captain  Molyueux." 

The  door  was  at  once  opened  by  the  ayah. 
At  that  instant  Zillah  sprang  to  her  feet  and 
looked  at  him  in  a  fury  of  passion. 

"  You!"  she  cried,  with  indescribable  malig- 
nancy. "Ymt.'  You  here!  How  dare  you 
come  here  ?  Go  down  stairs  this  instant !  If  it 
is  my  money  you  want,  take  it  all  and  begone. 
1  will  never,  never,  never,  marry  you!" 

For  a  moment  Guy  was  overcome.  The  taunt 
was  certainly  horril)le.  He  turned  pale,  but 
soon  regained  his  self-possession. 

"Miss  Pomeroy, " said  he,  quietly,  j'et  earnest- 
ly, "this  is  not  the  time  for  a  scene.  Your  fa- 
ther is  in  the  utmost  danger.  He  has  waited  for 
an  hour  and  a  quarter.  He  is  getting  worse  ev- 
ery moment.  He  made  one  attempt  to  get  out 
of  bed,  and  come  for  you  himself.  The  doctor 
ordered  me  to  come,  and  that  is  why  I  am  here. " 

"I  don't  believe  you !"  screamed  Zillah.  "You 
are  trying  to  frighten  me." 

"I  have  nothing  to  say," replied  Guy,  mourn- 
fully. "Your  fatlier  is  rapidly  getting  into  a 
state  of  frenzy.  If  it  lasts  much  longer  he  will 
die." 

Guy's  words  penetrated  to  Ziliah's  inmost  soul. 
A  wild  fear  arose,  which  in  a  moment  chased 
away  the  fury  which  had  possessed  her.  Her 
face  changed.  She  struck  her  hands  against  her 
brow,  and  uttered  an  exclamation  of  terror. 

"Tell  him  —  tell  him  —  I'm  coming.  Make 
haste,"  she  moaned.  "I'll  be  down  immediate- 
ly.    Oh,  make  haste!" 

She  hurried  back,  and  Guy  went  down  stairs 
again,  where  he  waited  at  the  bottom  with  his 
soul  in  a  strange  tumult,  and  his  heart  on  fire. 
Why  was  it  that  he  had  been  sold  for  all  this — 
he  and  that  wretched  child  ? 

But  now  Zillah  was  all  changed.  Now  she 
was  as  excited  in  her  haste  to  go  down  stairs  as 
slie  had  before  been  anxious  to  avoid  it.  She 
rushed  back  to  the  bedroom  where  Hilda  was, 
who,  though  unseen,  had  heard  eveiy  thing,  and, 
foreseeing  what  the  end  might  be,  was  now  get- 
ting things  ready. 

"Be  quick,  llilda!"  she  gasped.  "Papa  is 
living!  Oh,  be  quick — be  quick !  Let  me  save 
him!" 

She  literally  tore  off  the  dress  that  she  had  on, 
and  in  less  than  five  minutes  she  was  dressed. 
She  would  not  stop  for  Hilda  to  arrange  her 
wreath,  and  was  rushing  down  staiis  without  her 
veil,  when  the  ayah  ran  after  her  with  it. 

"  You  are  leaving  your  luck,  Missy  darling," 
said  she. 

"  Ay— that  I  am,"  said  Zillah,  bitterly. 

"But  you  will  put  it  on.  Missy,"  pleaded  the 
ayah.     "  Sahib  has  talked  so  much  about  it." 

Zillali  stopped.  The  ayah  threw  it  over  her, 
and  enveloped  her  in  its  soft  folds. 


"  It  was  your  mother's  veil.  Missy,"  she  add- 
ed. "Give  me  a  kiss  for  her  sake  before  you 
go." 

Zillah  flung  her  arms  around  the  old  woman's 
neck. 

"  Hush,  hush !"  she  said.  "Do  not  make  me 
give  way  again,  or  I  can  never  do  it. " 

At  the  foot  of  the  stairs  Guy  was  waiting,  and 
they  entered  the  room  solemnly  together— these 
two  victims — each  summoning  up  all  that  Honor 
and  Duty  might  supply  to  assist  in  what  each 
felt  to  be  a  sacrifice  of  all  life  and  hajipiness. 
But  to  Zillah  the  sacrifice  was  worse,  the  task 
was  harder,  and  the  ordeal  more  dreadful.  For 
it  was  her  father,  not  Guy's,  who  lay  there,  with 
a  face  that  already  seemed  to  have  the  touch  of 
death ;  it  was  she  who  felt  to  its  fullest  extent 
the  ghastliness  of  this  hideous  mockery. 

But  the  General,  whose  eyes  were  turned  ea- 
gerly toward  the  door,  found  in  this  scene  no- 
thing but  joy.  In  his  frenzy  he  regarded  them 
as  blessed  and  happy,  and  felt  this  to  be  the  full 
realization  of  his  higliest  hopes. 

"  Ah  I"  he  said,  with  a  long  gasp ;  "  here  she 
is  at  last.     Let  us  begin  at  once." 

So  the  little  group  formed  itself  around  the 
bed,  the  ayah  and  Hilda  being  present  in  the 
back-ground. 

In  a  low  voice  the  clergj-man  began  the  mar- 
riage service.  Far  more  solemn  and  impressive 
did  it  soimd  now  than  when  heai  J  under  circimi- 
stances  of  gayety  and  splendor ;  and  as  the  words 
sank  into  Guy's  soul,  he  reproached  himself  more 
than  ever  for  never  having  considered  the  mean- 
ing of  the  act  to  which  he  had  so  thoughtlessly 
pledged  himself. 

The  General  had  now  grown  calm.  He  lay 
perfectly  motionless,  gazing  wistfully  at  his 
daughter's  face.  So  quiet  was  he,  ancl  so  fixed 
was  his  gaze,  that  they  thought  he  had  sunk  into 
some  abstracted  fit ;  but  wlien  the  clergyman, 
with  some  hesitation,  asked  the  (juestion, 

"Who  giveth  this  woman  to  be  married  to 
this  man?"'  the  General  instantly  rep;ionded,  in 
a  firm  voice,  "I  do."  Then  reaching  forth,  ho 
took  Ziliah's  hand,  and  instead  of  giving  it  to 
the  clergyman,  he  himself  placed  it  within  Guy's, 
and  for  a  moment  held  both  hands  in  his,  while 
he  seemed  to  be  praying  for  a  blessing  to  rest  on 
their  union. 

The  service  proceeded.  Solemnly  the  priest 
uttered  the  warning:  "Those  whom  God  huth 
joined  together,  let  no  man  put  asunder. "  Sol- 
emnly, too,  he  pronounced  the  benediction— 
"May  ye  so  live  together  in  this  life  that  in  the 
world  to  come  ye  shall  hive  life  everlasting. " 

And  so,  foi  bette;  or  worse,  Guy  Molyi jix 
and  Zillah  PoMeroy  rose  ap — man  and  wife  ! 

After  the  •  ii..ri!;ige  cer<»mrny  was  over  Ua 
clergyman  administered  the  Hoiy  Communion — 
all  who  were  present  pai  taking  with  the  General ; 
and  solemn  indeed  was  the  thought  that  filled  the 
mind  of  each,  that  ere  long,  perhaps,  one  of  their 
number  might  be — not  figuratively,  but  literally 
— "  with  angels  and  archangels,  and  all  the  com- 
pany of  heaven." 

After  this  was  all  over  the  doctor  gave  the 
General  a  soothing  draught.  He  was  quite  calm 
now ;  he  took  it  without  objection ;  and  it  had 
the  effect  of  throwmg  him  soon  into  a  quiet  sleep. 

The  clergyman  and  the  lawyer  now  departed ; 
and  the  doctor,  motioning  to  Guy  and  Zillah  to 


^W' 


40 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


I 


' 


'  I' 


leave  the  room,  took  his  place,  with  an  anxious 
countenance,  by  the  General's  bedside.  The  hus- 
band and  wife  went  into  the  adjoining  room,  from 
which  they  could  hear  the  deep  breathing  of  the 
Rick  man. 

It  was  an  awkward  moment.  Guy  had  to  de- 
part in  a  short  time.  That  sullen  stolid  girl  who 
now  sat  before  him,  black  and  gloomy  us  a  thun- 


der-cloud, was  hit  wife.  Ho  was  going  awny, 
perhaps  forever.  He  did  not  know  exactly  how 
to  treat  her ;  whether  with  indifterence  as  u  will- 
ful child,  or  compassionate  attention  ns  one  deep- 
ly afflicted.  On  the  wiiole  he  felt  deeply  for  her, 
in  spite  of  Ids  own  forebodings  of  his  future ;  and 
80  he  followed  the  more  generous  dictates  of  liis 
heart.    Her  utter  loneliness,  and  the  thought  that 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


41 


-J^ 


■■a 
■J 


o 


llil  5 


■■a 

B 
H 


-^:£5, 


her  father  might  soon  be  taken  away,  tonched 
liim  deeply ;  uiiJ  this  feeling  was  evident  in  his 
whole  miinner  as  he  spoke. 

" Zillah, "  said  he,  "our  regiment  sails  for  In- 
dia several  days  sooner  than  1  first  expected,  and 
it  is  necessary  for  me  to  leave  in  a  short  time. 
You,  of  course,  are  to  remain  with  your  father, 
and  I  hope  that  he  may  soon  be  restored  to  you. 
Let  me  assure  you  that  this  whole  scene  has  been, 
under  the  circumstances,  most  painful,  for  your 
sake,  for  I  have  felt  keenly  that  I  was  the  inno- 
cent cause  of  great  sorrow  to  you." 

He  spoke  to  her  calmly,  and  as  a  father  would 
to  a  child,  and  at  the  same  time  reached  out  his 
hand  to  take  hers.    She  snatched  it  away  quickly. 

"Captain  Molyneux,"  said  she,  coldly,  "I 
married  you  solely  to  please  my  father,  and  be- 
cause he  was  not  in  a  state  to  have  his  wishes 
opposed.  It  was  u  sacrifice  of  myself,  and  a 
l)itter  one.  As  to  you,  I  put  no  trust  in  you,  and 
take  no  interest  whatever  in  your  plans.  But 
there  is  one  thing  which  I  wish  you  to  tell  me. 
Wiiat  did  papa  mean  by  saying  to  the  doctor, 
that  if  I  did  not  marry  you  I  should  lose  one- 
half  of  Tiy  fortune  ?" 

Zillah's  manner  at  once  chilled  all  the  waiin 
feelings  of  pity  and  generosity  which  Guy  had 
liegun  to  feel.  Her  question  also  was  an  embar- 
rassing one.  He  had  hoped  that  the  explanation 
might  come  later,  and  from  his  fatlier.  It  was 
an  awkward  one  for  him  to  make.  But  Zillah 
was  looking  at  him  impatiently. 

"Surely,"  she  continued  in  a  stern  voice  as 
she  noticed  his  hesitation,  "that  is  a  question; 
which  I  liave  a  right  to  ask." 

"  Of  course,"  said  Guy,  hastily.      "  I  will  tell  1 
you.     It  was  because  more  than  half  your  for- 
tune was  taken  to  pay  off  the  debt  on  Chetwynde 
Castle." 

A  deep,  angry,  crimson  flush  passed  over  Zil- 
lah's face. 

"So  that  is  the  reason  why  I  have  been  sold  ?" 
she  cried,  impetuously.  "Well,  Sir,  your  ma- 
ncBuvi'ing  has  succeeded  nobly.  Let  me  con- 
giatulate  you.  You  have  taken  in  a  guileless 
old  man,  and  a  young  girl." 

Guy  looked  at  her  for  a  moment  in  fierce  in- 
dignation. But  with  a  great  effort  he  subdued 
it,  andanswered,  as  calmly  as  possible:      « 

"You  do  not  know  either  my  father  or  my- 
self, or  you  would  be  convinced  that  sue':  lan- 
guage coidd  not  apply  to  either  of  us.  The  pro- 
jiosal  originally  emanated  entirely  from  General 
I'omeroy. " 

"Ah?"  said  Zilla,  fiercely.  "But  you  were 
l)ase  enough  to  take  advantage  of  his  generosity 
and  his  love  for  his  old  friend.  Oh !"  she  cried, 
bursting  into  tears,  "  that  is  what  I  feel,  that  he 
could  sacrifice  mo,  who  loved  him  so,'for  your 
riakes.  I  honestly  believed  once  that  it  was  his 
an.\iety  to  find  me  a  protector."  •• 

Guy's  face  had  grown  very  pale. 

"And  so  it  was,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  which 
was  deep  and  tremulous  from  his  strong  effort  at 
self-control.  "  He  trusted  my  father,  and  trusted 
me,  and  wished  to  protect  you  from  unprinci- 
pled fortune-hunters." 

^*  Fortum  -  hunters  .'  cried  Zillah,  her  face 
flushed,  and  with  accents  of  indescribable  scorn. 
"Good  Heavens!  What  are  you  if  you  are  not 
this  very  thing  ?    Oh,  how  I  hale  you !    how  I 


Guy  looked  at  her,  and  for  a  moment  was  on  the 
point  of  answering  her  in  the  same  fashion,  and 
pouring  dut  all  his  scorn  and  contempt.  But 
again  he  restrained  himself. 

"  You  are  excited,"  he  said,  coolly.  "One  of 
these  days  you  will  find  out  your  mistake.  You 
will  learn,  as  you  grov/  older,  that  the  name  of 
Chetwynde  can  not  be  coupled  with  charges  like 
these.  In  the  mean  time  allow  me  to  advise  you 
not  to  be  quite  so  free  in  your  language  when  you 
are  addressing  honorable  gentlemen  ;  and  to  sug- 
gest that  your  father,  who  loved  you  better  than 
any  one  in  the  world,  may  possibly  have  had  some 
cause  for  the  confidence  which  he  felt  in  us." 

There  was  a  coolness  in  Guy's  tone  which 
showed  that  he  did  not  think  it  worth  while  to 
be  angry  with  her,  or  to  resent  her  insults.  But 
Zillah  did  not  notice  this.  She  went  on  as  before : 

"There  is  one  thing  which  I  will  never  for- 
give." 

"Indeed?  Well,  your  forgiveness  is  so  very 
important  that  I  should  like  to  know  what  it  is 
that  jirevents  me  from  gaining  it."  ' 

"The  way  in  which  I  have  been  deceived!'! ; 
burst  forth  Zillah,  fiercely.  "  If  papa  had  wished 
to  give  you  half  of  his  money,  or  all  of  it,  I  should  ■ 
not  have  cared  a  bit.  I  do  not  care  for  that  at 
all.  But  why  did  nobody  tell  me  the  truth? 
Why  was  I  told  that  it  was  out  of  regard  to  me 
that  this  horror,  this  frightful  mockery  of  mar- 
riage, was  forced  upon  me,  while  my  heart  was 
breaking  with  anxiety  about  my  father ;  when  to 
you  I  was  only  a  necessary  evil,  without  which  ■ 
you  could  not  hope  to  get  my  father's  money ; 
and  the  only  good  I  can  possibly  have  is  the  fu- 
ture privilege  of  living  in  a  place  whose  very  name 
I, loathe,  with  the  man  who  has  cheated  me,  and 
whom  ail  my  life  I  shall  hate  and  abhor?  Now 
go!  and  I  pray  God  I  may  never  see  you 
again." 

With  these  words,  and  without  waiting  for  a 
re])ly,  she  left  the  room,  leaving  Guy  in  a  state 
of  mind  by  no  means  enviable. 

He  stood  staring  after  her.  "  And  that  thing 
is  mine  for  life!"  he  thought;  "tliat  she-devil! 
utterly  destitute  of  sense  and  of  reason !  Oh, 
Chetwynde,  Chetwynde !  yx)u  have  cost  me  dear. 
See  you  again,  my  fiend  of  a  wife !  I  hope  not. 
No,  never  while  I  live.  Some  of  these  days  I'll 
give  you  back  your  sixty  thousand  with  interest. 
And  you,  why  you  may  go  to  the  devil  forever!" 

Half  an  hour  afterward  Gny  was  seated  in  the 
dog-cart  bowling  to  the  station  as  fast  as  two 
thoroiigh-breds  could  take  him ;  every  moment 
congratulating  himself  on  the  increasing  distance 
which  was  separating  him  from  his  bride  of  an 
hour. 

The  doctor  watched  all  that  night.  On  the 
following  morning  the  General  was  senseless. 
On  the  next  day  he  died. 


hate 


you! 


CHAPTER  XI. 

A     NEW    HOME. 

Dearly  had  Zillah  paid  for  that  frenzy  of  her 
dying  father;  and  the  consciousness  that  her 
whole  life  was  now  made  over  iiTevocahly  to  art- 
other,  brought  to  her  a  pang  so  acute  that  it 
counterbalanced  the  grief  which  she  felt  for  her 
father's  death.     Tierce  anger  and  bitter  indig' 


42 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


'lil 


nation  struggled  with  the  sorrow  of  bereavement, 
and  sometimes,  in  her  blind  rage,  she  even  went 
so  far  as  to  reproach  her  father's  wiemory.  Uu 
all  who  had  taken  part  in  that  fateful  ceremony 
she  looked  with  vengeful  feelings.  tShe  thought, 
and  theco  was  reason  in  the  tiiought,  that  they 
might  have  satisfied  his  mind  without  binding 
her.  They  could  have  humored  his  delirium 
without  forfeiting  her  liberty.  They  could  have 
had  a  mock  priest,  who  might  have  read  a  serv- 
ice which  would  have  had  no  authority,  and  im- 
posed vows  which  would  not  be  binding.  On 
Guy  she  looked  with  the  deepest  scorn,  for  she 
believed  that  he  was  the  chief  offender,  and  that 
if  he  had  been  a  man  of  honor  lie  might  have 
found  many  ways  to  avoid  this  thing.  Possibly 
Guy  as  he  drove  off  was  thinking  the  same,  and 
cursing  his  dull  wit  for  not  doing  something  to 
delay  the  ceremony  or  make  it  void.  But  to 
both  it  was  now  too  late. 

The  General's  death  took  place  too  soon  for 
Zillah.  Had  he  lived  she  might  have  been  spared 
long  sorrows.  Had  it  not  been  for  this,  and  his 
frantic  haste  in  forcing  on  a  marriage,  her  early 
betrothal  might  have  had  different  results.  Guy 
would  have  gone  to  India.  He  would  have  re- 
mained there  for  years,  and  then  have  come 
home.  On  his  return  he  might  possibly  have 
won  her  love,  and  then  they  could  have  settled 
down  harmoniously  in  the  usual  fashion.  But 
now  she  found  herself  thrust  upon  him,  and  the 
very  thought  of  him  was  a  horror.  Never  could 
the  remembrance  of  that  hideous  mockery  at  the 
bedside  of  one  so  dear,  who  was  passing  away 
forever,  leave  her  mind.  All  the  solemnities  of 
death  had  been  outraged,  and  all  her  memories 
of  the  dying  hours  of  her  best  fiiend  were  for- 
ever associated  with  bitterness  and  sliame. 

For  some  time  after  her  father's  death  she 
gave  herself  up  to  the  motions  of  her  wild  and 
ungovernable  temper.  Alternations  of  savage 
fuiy  and  mute  despair  succeeded  to  one  another. 
To  one  like  her  there  was  no  relief  from  either 
mood ;  and,  in  addition  to  this,  there  was  the 
prospect  of  the  arrival  of  Lord  Chetwynde.  The 
thought  of  this  filled  her  with  such  a  passion  of 
anger  that  she  began  to  meditate  flight.  She 
mentioned  this  to  Hilda,  with  the  idea  that  of 
course  Hilda  would  go  with  her. 

Hilda  listened  in  her  usual  qniet  way,  and  with 
a  great  appearance  of  sympathy.  She  assented 
to  it,  and  (juite  appreciated  Zillah's  position. 
But  she  suggested  that  it  might  l)e  difficult  to 
carry  out  such  a  plan  without  money. 

"Money!"  said  Zillah,  in  astonishment. 
"  Why,  have  T  not  plenty  of  money  ?  All  is 
mine  now  surely." 

"  Very  likely,"  said  Hilda,  coolly ;  "  but  how 
do  you  propose  to  get  it '  You  know  the  lawyer 
has  all  the  papers,  and  eveiy  thing  else  under 
lock  and  key  till  Lord  Clietwynde  comes,  and 
the  will  is  read;  besides,  dear,"  she  added  with 
n  soft  smile,  "yon  forget  that  a  married  woman 
can  not  possess  property.  Our  charming  En- 
glish law  gives  her  no  rights.  All  that  you  nom- 
inally possess  in  reality  belongs  to  your  hus- 
band." 

At  this  hated  word  "husband,"  Zillah's  eyes 
flashed.  She  clenched  her  hands,  and  ground 
her  teeth  in  rage. 

"Be  qniet!"  she  cried,  in  a  voice  which  was 
scarce  audible  from  passion.     "  Can  you  not  lot 


me  forget  my  shame  and  disgrace  for  one  mo- 
ment ?     Why  must  you  thrust  it  in  my  face  ?'' 

Hilda's  little  suggestion  thus  brought  full  be- 
fore Zilhili's  mind  one  galling  yet  undeniable 
truth,  which  showed  her  an  insurmountable  ob- 
stacle in  the  way  of  her  plan.  To  one  utterly 
unaccustomed  to  control  of  any  kind,  the  thought 
added  fresh  rage,  and  she  now  sought  refuge  in 
thinking  how  she  could  best  encounter  her  new 
enemy.  Lord  Chetwynde,  and  what  she  might 
say  to  show  how  she  scorned  him  and  his  son. 
She  succeeded  iit  arranging  a  very  promising 
plan  of  action,  and  made  up  many  very  bitter 
and  insulting  speeches,  out  of  which  she  selected 
one  which  seemed  to  be  the  most  cutting,  gall- 
ing, and  insulting  which  she  could  think  of.  It 
was  very  neorly  the  same  language  wliich  she 
had  used  to  Guy,  and  the  same  taunts  were  re- 
peated in  a  somewhat  more  pointed  maimer. 

At  length  Lord  Chetwynde  arriveil,  and  Zil- 
lah, after  refusing  to  see  him  for  two  days,  went 
down.  She  entered  the  drawing-room,  her  heart 
on  fire,  and  her  brain  seething  with  bitter  words, 
and  looked  up  to  see  her  enemy.  That  enemj', 
however,  was  an  old  man  whose  sight  was  too 
dim  to  see  the  malignant  glance  of  her  dark ' 
eyes,  and  the  fierce  passion  of  her  face.  Know- 
ing that  she  was  coming,  he  was  awaiting  her, 
and  Zillah  on  looking  up  saw  him.  That  first 
sight  at  once  quelled  her  fury.  She  saw  a  noble 
and  refined  face,  whereon  there  was  an  expression 
of  tenderest  sympathy.  Before  she  coidd  re- 
cover from  the  shock  which  the  sight  of  such  a 
face  had  given  to  her  passion  he  had  advanced 
rapidly  toward  her,  took  her  in  his  arms,  and 
kissed  her  tenderly. 

"My  poor  child,"  he  said,  in  a  voice  of  in- 
describable sweetness — "my  poor  orj)han  child, 
I  can  not  tell  how  I  feel  for  you ;  but  you  belong 
to  me  now.     I  will  try  to  be  another  father." 

The  tones  of  his  voice  were  so  full  of  affection 
that  Zillah,  who  was  always  sensitive  to  the  pow- 
er of  love  and  kindness,  was  instantly  softened 
and  subdued.  Before  the  touch  of  that  kiss  of 
love  and  those  words  of  tenderness  every  emo- 
tion of  anger  fled  away ;  her  passion  subsided ; 
she  forgot  all  her  vengeance,  and,  taking  his  hand 
in  both  of  hers,  she  burst  into  tears. 

The  Earl  gentlj'  led  her  to  a  seat.  In  a  low 
voice  full  of  the  same  tender  affection  he  began 
to  talk  of  her  father,  of  their  old  fiiendship  in 
the  long-vanished  youth,  of  her  father's  noble 
nature,  and  self-sacrificing  character ;  till  his 
fond  eulogies  of  his  dead  friend  awakened  in 
Zillah,  even  amidst  her  gi-ief  for  the  dead,  a  thou- 
sand reminiscences  of  his  character  when  alive, 
and  she  began  to  feel  that  one  who  so  knew  and 
loved  her  father  must  himself  have  been  most 
worthy  to  be  her  father's  friend. 

It  was  thus  that  her  first  interview  with  the 
Earl  dispelled  her  vindictive  passion.  At  once 
she  began  to  look  upon  him  as  the  one  who  was 
best  adapted  to  fill  her  father's  ))lace,  if  that 
plAce  could  ever  be  filled.  The  more  she  saw 
of  him,  the  more  her  new-bom  att'eciion  for  him 
strengthened,  and  during  the  week  which  he 
spent  at  Poraeroy  Court  she  had  become  so 
greatly  changed  that  she  looked  back  to  her  old 
feelings  of  hate  with  mournful  wonder. 

In  duo  time  the  General's  will  was  read.  It 
was  very  simple :  Thirty  thonsand  pounds  were 
loft  to  Zillah.     To  Hilda  three  thousand  pounds 


a  low 

began 
lip  in 
noble 
II  his 
lied  in 
tliou- 
ii'.ive, 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


k^ 


(1.   It 

were 


were  left  as  a  tribute  of  affection  to  one  who  had 
been  to  him,  as  he  said,  "like  a  daughter." 
Hilda  he  recommended  most  earnestly  to  the 
care  and  affection  of  Lord  Chetwynde,  and  de- 
sired that  she  and  Zillah  should  never  be  sepa- 
rated unless  they  themselves  desired  it.  To  that 
Inst  request  of  his  (lying  friend  Lord  Chetwynde 
proved  faitliful.  He  addressed  Hilda  with  kind- 
ness and  affection,  expressed  symjiathy  with  her 
in  the  loss  of  her  benefactor,  and  promised  to  do 
all  in  his  power  to  make  good  the  loss  which  she 
had  sutt'ered  in  hii  death.  She  and  Zillah,  he 
told  her,  might  live  na  sisters  in  Chetwynde  Cas- 
tle. Perhaps  the  tmie  might  come  when  their 
grief  would  be  alleviated,  and  then  they  would 
both  learn  to  loo'v  upon  him  with  something  of 
that  affection  which  they  had  felt  for  General 
I'omeroy. 

When  Hilda  and  Zillah  went  >vith  the  Earl  to 
Chetwynde  Castle  tnere  was  one  other  who  was 
invited  there,  and  who  afterward  followed.  This 
was  Gualtier.  Hilda  had  recommended  him.; 
and  as  the  Earl  was  very  anxious  that  Zillah 
should  not  grow  up  to  Avomanhood  without  further 
education,  he  caught  at  the  idea  which  Hilda  had 
thrown  out.  So  before  leaving  he  sought  out 
Gualtier,  and  proposed  that  he  should  continue 
his  instructions  at  Chetwynde. 

"You  can  live  very  well  in  the  village,"  said 
the  Earl.  "There  are  families  there  with  whom 
you  can  lodge  comfortably.  Mrs.  Molyneux  is 
acquainted  with  you  and  your  style  of  teaching, 
and  therefore  I  would  prefer  you  to  any  other." 

Gualtier  bowed  so  low  that  the  flush  of  pleas- 
ure which  came  over  his  sallow  face,  and  his 
smile  of  ill-concealed  triumph,  could  not  be  seen. 

"You  are  too  kind,  my  lord,"  he  said,  obse- 
quiously. "  I  have  always  done  my  best  in  my 
instructions,  and  will  humbly  endeavor  to  do  so 
in  the  future. " 

So  Gualtier  followed  them,  and  arrived  at 
Chetwynde  a  short  time  after  them,  bearing  with 
him  his  power,  or  perhaps  his  fate,  to  influence 
Zillah's  fortunes  and  future. 

Chetwynde  Castle  had  experienced  some 
changes  during  these  years.  The  old  butler  had 
been  gathered  to  his  fathers,  but  Mrs.  Hart  still 
remained.  The  Castle  itself  and  the  groimds 
had  changed  wonderfully  for  the  better.  It  had 
lost  that  air  of  neglect,  decay,  and  ruin  which 
had  fonnerly  been  its  chief  characteristic.  It 
was  no  longer  poverty-stricken.  It  arose,  with 
its  antique  towers  and  venerable  ivy-grown  walls, 
exhibiting  in  its  outline  all  that  age  possesses  of 
dignity,  without  any  of  the  meanness  of  neglect. 
It  seemed  like  one  of  the  noblest  remains  which 
England  possessed  of  the  monuments  of  feudal 
times.  The  first  sight  of  it  elicited  a  cry  of  ad- 
miration from  Zillah ;  and  she  i'<  id  not  the 
least  of  its  attractions  in  the  figure  of  the  old 
Karl — himself  a  monument  of  the  past — whose 
flgnre,  as  he  stood  on  the  steps  to  welcome  them, 
formed  a  fore-ground  which  an  artist  would  have 
loved  to  portray. 

Arcund  the  Castle  all  had  changed.  What 
had  once  beon  little  better  than  a  wilderness  was 
now  a  wide  and  well-kejit  park.  The  rose  pleas- 
aunce  had  been  restored  to  its  j)ristine  glory.  The 
lawns  were  smooth-shaven  and  glowing  in  their 
rich  emerald-green.  The  lakes  and  ponds  were 
no  longer  overgrown  with  dank  nishes  ;  but  had 
been  reclaimed  from   buiug   little  better  than 


marshes  into  briglit  expanses  of  clear  water, 
where  ttsh  swam  and  swans  loved  to  si)urt.  Long 
avenues  and  cool,  shadowy  walks  wound  far  away 
through  the  groves;  and  the  stately  oaks  and 
elms  around  the  Castle  had  lost  that  ghostly  and 
gloomy  air  which  had  once  been  spread  about  them. 

Within  the  Castle  every  thing  had  undergone 
a  correspoiding  change.  There  was  no  attempt 
at  moderi.  splendor,  no  effort  to  rival  the  luxu- 
ries of  the  wealthier  lords  of  England.  The 
Earl  had  leen  content  with  arresting  the  prog- 
ress of  de(  ay,  and  adding  to  the  restoration  of 
the  interior  some  general  air  of  modern  comfoit. 
Within,  the  scene  corresponded  finely  to  that 
which  lay  without;  and  the  medieval  character 
of  the  inteiior  made  it  attractive  to  Zillah's  pe- 
culiar taste. 

The  white-faced,  mysterious -looking  house* 
keeper,  as  she  looked  sadly  and  wistfully  at  the 
new-comers,  and  asked  in  a  tremulous  voice 
which  was  Guy's  wife,  formed  for  Zillah  a  strik- 
ing incident  in  the  arrival.  To  her  Ziilnh  at 
once  took  a  strong  liking,  and  Mrs.  Hart  seemed 
to  form  one  e(iually  strong  for  her.  From  the 
veiy  first  her  att'ection  for  Zillah  was  very  mani- 
fest, and  as  the  days  passed  it  increased.  !She 
seemed  to  cling  to  the  young  girl  as  though  her 
loviiig  nature  needed  something  on  which  to  ex-" 
pend  its  love ;  as  though  there  was  a  maternal 
instinct  which  craved  to  be  satisfied,  and  sought 
such  satisfaction  in  her.  Zillah  returned  her  ten- 
der affection  with  a  fondness  which  would  have 
satisfied  tlie  most  exigeant  nature.  She  herself 
had  never  known  the  sweetness  of  a  mother's 
care,  and  it  seemed  as  though  she  had  suddenly 
found  out  all  this.  The  discovery  was  deliKbtfill 
to  so  affectionate  a  nature  as  hers ;  and  her  en- 
thusiastic disposition  made  her  devotion  to  Mre. 
Hart  more  marked.  She  often  wondered  to  her- 
self why  Mrs.  Hart  had  "taken  such  a  fancy"  to 
her.  And  so  did  the  other  members  of  the  house- 
hold. Perhaps  it  was  because  she  was  the  wife 
of  Guy,  who  was  so  dear  to  the  heart  of  his  af- 
fectionate old  nurse.  Perhaps  it  was  something 
in  Zillah  herself  which  attracted  Mrs.  Hart,  and 
made  her  seek  in  her  one  who  might  fill  Guy's 
place. 

Time  passed  away,  and  Gualtier  arrived,  in 
accordance  with  the  Earl's  request.  Ziliah  had 
supposed  that  she  was  now  free  forever  from  all 
teachers  and  lessons,  and  it  was  with  some  dis- 
may that  she  heard  of  Gualtier's  arrival.  She 
said  nothing,  however,  but  prepared  to  go  through 
the  form  of  taking  lessons  in  music  and  drawing 
as  before.  She  had  begun  already  to  have  a  cer- 
tain instinct  of  obedience  toward  the  Earl,  and 
felt  desirous  to  gratify  his  wishes.  But  whotever 
changes  of  feeling  she  had  experienced  toward 
her  new  guardian,  she  showed  no  change  of  man- 
ner toward  Gualtier.  To  her,  application  to  any 
thing  was  a  thing  as  irksome  as  ever.  Perhaps 
her  fitful  efforts  to  advance  were  more  frequent ; 
but  after  each  eft'ort  she  used  invariably  to  re- 
lapse into  idleness  and  tedium. 

Her  manner  troubled  Gualtier  as  little  as  ever. 
He  let  her  have  her  own  way  quite  in  the  old 
stylo.  Hilda,  as  before,  was  always  present  at 
these  instructions ;  and  after  the  hour  devoted 
to  Zillah  had  expired  she  had  lessons  of  her  own. 
But  Gualtier  remarked  that,  for  some  reason  or 
other,  a  great  change  had  come  over  her.  Hei 
attitude  toward  him  had  relapsed  into  one  of  rati- 


44 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


Ml 


i    i! 


ll 


II  !■: 


cence  and  reserve.  The  approaches  to  confidence 
and  familiarity  which  she  had  formerly  made 
seemed  now  to  be  completely  forgotten  by  her. 
The  stealthy  conversations  in  which  they  used  to 
indulge  were  not  renewed.  Her  manner  was  such 
that  he  did  not  venture  to  enter  upon  his  former 
footing.  Ti'ue,  Zillah  was  always  in  the  room 
now,  and  did  not  leave  so  often  as  she  used  to 


do,  but  sfiir  there  were  times  when  they  were 
alone ;  yet  on  these  occasions  Hilda  showed  no 
desire  to  return  to  that  intimacy  which  they  had 
once  known  in  their  private  interviews. 

This  new  state  of  things  Gualtier  bore  meekly 
and  patiently.  He  was  either  too  respectful  or 
too  cunning  to  make  any  advances  himself.  Per- 
haps he  had  a  deep  conviction  that  Hilda's  changed 


' 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


45 


o 

'.J 

?< 

OS 
I- 


manner  was  but  temporary,  and  that  the  purpose 
wliiuh  she  had  once  revealed  might  still  lie  cher- 
ished in  her  heart.  True,  the  General's  death 
iiad  changed  the  aspect  of  atiuirs  ;  but  he  had  his 
reasons  for  believing  that  it  could  not  altogether 
destroy  her  plans.  He  had  a  deep  conviction 
that  the  time  would  come  one  day  when  he  would 
know  what  was  on  her  mind.  He  was  patient. 
He  could  wait.     So  the  time  went  on. 

As  the  time  passed  the  life  at  C'hetwynde  Cas- 
tle became  more  and  more  grateful  to  Zillah. 
Naturally  aliectionate,  her  heart  had  softened 
under  its  new  trials  and  experiences,  and  there 
was  full  chance  for  the  growth  of  those  kindly 
and  generous  emotions  which,  after  all,  were 
most  natural  and  congenial  to  her.  In  addition 
to  her  own  affection  for  the  Earl  and  for  Mrs. 
Hart,  she  found  a  constraint  on  her  here  which 
she  had  not  known  while  living  the  life  of  a  spoiled 
and  indulged  child  in  her  own  former  home. 
'I'he  sorrow  through  which  she  had  passed  had 
made  her  less  childish.  The  Earl  began  in  re- 
ality to  seem  to  her  like  a  second  father,  one 
whom  she  could  both  revere  and  love. 

Very  soon  after  her  first  ac(iuaintance  with 
him  slie  found  out  that  by  no  possibility  could 
he  be  a  party  to  any  thing  dishonorable.  Find- 
ing thus  that  her  first  suspicions  were  utterly 
unfounded,  she  began  to  think  it  possible  that 
her  marriage,  thcgh  odious  in  itself,  had  been 
planned  with  a  good  intent.  To  think  Lord 
Chetwynde  mercenary  was  impossible.  His  char- 
acter was  so  high-toned,  and  even  so  punctilious 
in  its  regard  to  nice  points  of  honor,  that  he  was 
not  even  worldly  wise.  With  the  mode  in  which 
her  marriage  had  been  finally  carried  out  he  had 
clearly  nothing  whatever  to  do.  Of  all  her  sus- 
picions, her  anger  against  an  innocent  and  noble- 
minded  man,  and  her  treatment  of  him  on  his 
first  \itiit  to  Pomeroy  Court,  she  now  felt  thor- 
oughly ashamed.  She  longed  to  tell  him  all 
about  it — to  explain  why  it  was  that  she  had  felt 
so  and  done  so — and  waited  for  some  favorable 
opiKjvtunity  for  making  her  confession. 

At  length  an  opportunity  occurred.  One  day 
the  Earl  was  speaking  of  her  father,  and  he  told 
Zillah  about  his  return  to  England,  and  his  visit 
to  Clietwynde  Castle ;  and  finally  told  how  the 
whole  arrangement  had  been  made  between  them 
by  whicli  she  had  become  Guy's  wife.  He  spoke 
with  such  deep  affection  about  General  Pome- 
roy,  and  so  feelingly  of  his  intense  love  for  his 
daughter,  that  at  last  Zillah  began  to  understand 
perfectly  the  motives  of  the  actors  in  this  matter. 
She  saw  that  in  the  whole  affair,  from  first  to 
last,  there  was  nothing  but  the  fondest  thought 
of  herself,  and  that  the  very  money  itself,  which 
she  used  to  think  had  "purchased  her»"  was  in 
some  sort  an  investment  for  her  own  benefit  in 
the  future.  As  the  whole  truth  flashed  sudden- 
ly into  Zillah's  mind  she  saw  now  most  clearly 
not  only  how  deeply  she  had  wronged  Lord  Chet- 
wynde, but  also— and  now  for  the  first  time- 
how  foully  she  had  insulted  Gny  by  her  malig- 
nant accusations.  To  a  generous  nature  like 
liera  the  shock  of  this  discovery  was  intensely 
painful.  Tears  started  to  her  eyes,  she  twined 
lier  arms  around  Lord  Chetwynde's  neck,  and 
told  him  the  whole  story,  not  excepting  a  single 
word  of  all  that  she  had  said  to  Guy. 

"  And  I  told  him,"  she  concluded,  "all  this — 
I  said  that  he  was  a  mean  fortune-hunter;  and 


that  you  had  cheated  papa  out  of  his  money; 
and  that  1  hated  him — and  oh !  will  you  ever 
forgive  me?" 

This  was  altogether  a  new  and  unexpected 
disclosure  to  the  Earl,  and  he  listened  to  Zillah 
in  unfeigned  astonishment.  Guy  had  told  him 
nothing  beyond  the  fact  communicated  in  a  let- 
ter— that  "whatever  his  future  wife  might  be 
remarkable  for,  ho  did  not  think  that  amiability 
was  her  forte."  But  all  this  revelation,  unex- 
pected though  it  was,  excited  no  feeling  of  re- 
sentment in  his  mind. 

"My  child,"  said  he,  tenderly,  though  some- 
what sadly,  "you  certainly  behaved  very  ill. 
Of  course  you  could  not  know  us ;  but  surely 
you  might  have  trusted  your  father's  love  and 
wisdom.  But,  after  all,  there  were  a  good  many 
excuses  for  you,  my  poor  little  girl^so  I  pity  you 
very  much  indeed — it  was  a  terrible  ordeal  for 
one  so  young.  I  can  understand  more  than  you 
have  cared  to  tell  me." 

"Ah,  how  kind,  how  good  yon  are!"  said 
Zillah,  who  had  anticipated  some  reproaches, 
"But  I'll  never  forgive  myself  for  doing  you 
such  injustice." 

"Oh,  as  to  that,"  said  Lord  Chetwynde ;  "if 
you  feel  that  you  have  done  any  injustice,  there 
is  one  way  that  I  can  tell  you  of  by  which  you 
can  make  full  reparation.  Will  you  try  to  make 
it,  my  little  girl?" 

"  What  do  you  want  me  to  do?"  asked  Zil- 
lah, hesitatingly,  not  wishing  to  compromise  her- 
self. The  first  thought  which  she  had  was  that 
he  was  going  to  ask  her  to  apologize  to  Guy — a- 
thing  which  she  would  by  no  means  care  about 
doing,  even  in  her  most  penitent  mood.  Lord 
Chetwynde  was  one  thing;  but  Guy  was  quite 
another.  The  former  she  loved  dearly ;  but  to- 
ward the  latter  she  still  felt  resentment — a  feel- 
ing which  was  perhaps  strengthened  and  sus- 
tained by  the  fact  that  every  one  at  Chetwynde 
looked  upon  her  as  a  being  who  had  been  placed 
upon  the  summit  of  human  happiness  by  the 
mere  fact  of  being  Guy's  wife.  To  her  it  was 
intolerable  to  be  valued  merely  for  his  sake. 
Human  nature  is  apt  to  resent  in  any  case  hav- 
ing its  blessings  perpetually  thrust  in  its  face ; 
but  in  this  case  what  they  called  a  blessing,  to 
her  seemed  the  blackest  horror  of  her  life ;  and 
Zillah's  resentment  was  all  the  stronger;  while 
all  this  resentment  she  naturally  vented  on  iha 
head  of  the  one  who  .had  become  her  husband. 
She  could  manage  to  tolerate  his  praises  when 
sounded  by  the  Earl,  but  hardly  so  with  the 
others.  Mrs.  Hart  was  most  trying  to  her  pa- 
tience in  this  respect;  and  it  needed  all  Zillah's' 
love  for  her  to  sustain  her  while  listening  to  the 
old  nurse  as  she  grew  eloquent  on  her  favorite 
theme.  Zillah  felt  like  the  Athenian  who  was 
bored  to  death  by  the  perpetual  praise  of  Aris- 
tides.  If  she  had  no  other  complaint  against' 
him,  this  might  of  itself  have  been  enough. 

The  fear,  however,  which  was  in  her  mind  aa 
to  the  reparation  which  was  expected  of  her  was " 
dispelled  by  Lord  Chetwynde's  answer : 

"  I  want  you,  my  child,"  said  he,  "  to  try  and 
improve  yourself — to  get  on  as  fast  as  you  can 
with  your  masters,  so  that  when  the  time  comes 
for  you  to  take  your  proper  place  in  society  you 
may  be  equal  to  ladies  of  your  own  rank  in  educa- 
tion and  accomplLshments.  I  want  to  be  proud 
of  my  daughter  when  I  show  her  to  the  world." 


46 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


'  n 


"  And  so  you  shall,"  said  Zillnh,  twining  her 
arms  uguiu  ulioiit  \m  neck  and  kixHing  him  fond- 
ly. ' '  1  i)romiso  you  that  from  this  time  forward 
I  will  try  to  study." 

lie  kissed  her  lovingly.  "I  am  sure,"  said 
he,  "that  you  will  keep  your  word,  my  child; 
and  now,"  he  added,  "one  thing  mon  :  How 
much  longer  do  you  intend  to  keep  up  this 
'Lord  Chetwynde ?'  I  must  be  called  by  an- 
other name  by  you — not  the  name  by  which  you 
called  your  own  dear  father — that  is  too  sacred 
to  be  given  to  any  other.  But  have  I  not  some 
claim  to  be  called  'Father,'  dear?  i)r  does  not 
my  little  Zillah  care  enough  for  me  for  that  ?'' 

At  this  the  warm-hearted  girl  flung  her  arms 
around  him  once  more  and  kissed  him,  and  burst 
into  tears. 

"  Dear  father!"  she  murmured. 

And  from  that  moment  perfect  confidence  and 
love  existed  between  these  two. 


CHAPTER  XIL 

COERE8PONDBNCK. 

Time  sped  rapidly  and  uneventfully  by.  Guy's 
letters  from  India  formed  almost  the  only  break 
in  the  monotony  of  the  household.  Zillah  soon 
found  herself,  against  her  will,  sharing  in  the 
general  eagerness  respecting  tiiese  letters.  It 
would  have  l)een  a  very  strong  mind  indeed,  or 
a  very  obdurate  heart,  which  conld  have  remain- 
ed unmoved  at  Lord  Chetwynde's  delight  when 
he  received  his  boy's  letters.  Their  advent  was 
also  the  Hegira  from  which  every  thing  in  the 
family  dated.  Apart,  however,  from  the  halo 
which  surrounded  these  letters,  they  were  inter- 
estitig  in  themselves.    Guy  wrote  easily  and  well. 


His  letters  to  his  father  were  half  familiar,  half 
filial ;  a  mixture  of  love  and  good-fellowship, 
showing  a  sort  of  union,  so  to  speak  of  the  son 
with  the  younger  brother.  They  \.  e  full  of 
humor  also,  and  made  up  of  descriptions  of  life 
in  the  East,  with  all  its  varied  wonders.  He- 
sides  this,  Guy  happened  to  be  stationed  at  the 
very  place  where  General  Pomeroy  had  been 
Resident  for  so  many  years ;  and  he  himself  had 
command  of  one  of  the  hill  stations  where  Zillnh 
herself  had  once  been  sent  to  pass  the  summer. 
These  places  of  which  Guy's  letters  treated  pos- 
sessed for  her  a  peculiar  interest,  surrounded  as 
they  were  by  some  of  the  pleasantest  associations 
of  her  life  ;  and  thus,  from  very  many  causes,  it 
happened  that  she  gradually  came  to  take  an  in- 
terest in  these  letters  which  increased  rather  than 
diminished. 

In  one  of  these  there  had  once  come  a  note  in- 
closed to  Zilluh,  condoling  with  her  on  her  fa- 
ther's death.  It  was  manly  and  sympathetic, 
and  not  at  all  stiff.  Zillah  had  received  it  when 
her  bitter  feelings  were  in  the  ascendant,  and  did 
not  think  of  answering  it  until  Hilda  urged  on 
her  the  necessity  of  doing  so.  It  is  just  possible 
that  if  Hilda  had  made  use  of  different  arguments 
she  might  have  persuaded  Zillah  to  send  some 
sort  of  an  answer,  if  only  to  please  the  Earl. 
The  arguments,  however,  which  she  did  use  hap- 
pened to  be  singularly  ill  chosen.  The  "hus- 
band" loomed  largely  in  them,  and  there  were 
very  many  direct  allusions  to  marital  authority. 
As  these  were  Zilluh's  sorest  points,  such  refer- 
ences only  served  to  excite  fresh  repugnance, 
and  strengthen  Zillah's  determination  not  to 
write.  Hilda,  however,  persisted  in  her  efforts ; 
and  the  result  was  that  finally,  at  the  end  of  one 
long  and  rather  stormy  discussion,  Zillah  pas- 
sionately threw  the  letter  at  her,  saying : 

"If  you  are  so  anxious  to  have  it  answered, 
do  it  yourself.  It  is  a  world  of  pities  he  is  not 
your  husband  instead  of  mine,  you  seem  so  won- 
derfully anxious  about  him." 

"It  is  unkind  of  you  to  say  that,"  replied 
Hilda,  in  a  meek  voice,  "when  you  know  so 
well  that  my  sympathy  and  anxiety  are  all  for 
you,  and  you  alone.  You  argue  with  me  as 
though  I  had  some  interest  in  it ;  but  what  pos- 
sible interest  can  it  be  to  me  ?" 

"Oh,  well,  dearest  Hilda,"  said  Zillah,  in- 
stantly appeased ;  "  I'm  always  pettish ;  but  you 
won't  mind,  will  you?  You  never  mind  my 
ways." 

"I've  a  great  mind  to  take  you  at  your  word," 
said  Hilda,  after  a  thoughtful  pause,  "and  write 
it  for  you.  It  ought  to  be  answered,  and  you 
won't ;  so  why  should  I  not  do  the  part  of  a 
friend,  and  answer  it  for  you  ?" 

Zillah  started,  and  seemed  just  a  little  nettled. 

"Oh,  I  don't  care,"  she  said,  with  assumed 
indifference.  "  If  you  choose  to  take  the  trouble, 
why  I  am  sure  I  ought  to  be  under  obligations  to 
you.  At  any  rate,  I  shall  be  glad  to  get  rid  of  it 
so  long  as  I  have  nothing  to  do  with  it.  I  sup- 
pose it  must  be  done. " 

Hilda  made  some  protestations  of  her  devo- 
tion to  Zillah,  and  some  further  conversation 
followed,  all  of  which  resulted  in  this — that  Hilda 
wrote  the  letter  iti  ZiHaKs  name,  and  signed  that 
name  in  her  own  hand,  and  under  Zillah's  own 
eye,  and  with  Zillah's  half-reluctant,  half-pettish 
concurrence. 


THE  CRYPTOGRAJf. 


4r 


Out  of  this  beginning  there  flowed  losults  of  an 
Importunt  dmnictcr,  which  were  Hoon  j)erceivcd 
even  by  Zilhih,  though  she  was  forced  to  keep 
her  fct^liiigs  to  herself.  Occiisional  notes  came 
ufteruurd  from  time  to  time  for  Zillnh,  and  were 
answered  in  tlio  same  way  by  Hilda.  All  this 
Zillali  endured  quietly,  but  with  real  repugnance, 
which  increased  until  the  change  took  place  in 
her  feelings  which  has  been  mentioned  at  the  be- 
ginning of  this  chapter,  when  she  at  length  de- 
termined to  put  an  end  to  such  an  anomalous 
.state  of  things  and  assert  herself  It  was  diffi- 
cult to  do  so.  iShe  loved  Hilda  dearly,  and 
jilaced  perfect  confidence  in  her.  She  was  too 
guileless  to  dream  of  any  sinister  motive  in  her 
friend ;  and  the  only  difficulty  of  which  she  was 
conscious  was  the  fear  that  Hilda  might  suspect 
the  change  in  her  feelings  toward  Guy.  The 
very  idea  of  Hilda's  finding  this  out  alarmed  her 
sensitive  pride,  and  made  her  defer  for  a  long 
time  her  intent.  At  length,  however,  she  felt 
unable  to  do  so  any  longer,  and  determined  to 
run  the  risk  of  disclosing  the  state  of  her  feel- 
ings. 

So  one  day,  after  the  receipt  of  a  note  to  her- 
self, a  slight  degree  more  friendly  than  usual, 
she  hinted  to  Hilda  rather  shyly  that  she  would 
like  to  answer  it  herself 

"Oh,  I  am  so  glad,  darling!"  cried  Hilda,  en- 
thusiastically. "  It  will  be  so  much  nicer  for 
you  to  do  it  yourself.  It  will  relieve  nie  from 
embarrassment,  for,  after  all,  ray  position  was 
embarrassing — writing  for  you  always — and  then, 
you  know,  you  will  write  far  better  letters  than  I 
can. " 

"It  will  be  a  Heaven-born  gift,  then,"  returned 
Zillah,  laughing,  "as  I  never  wrote  a  letter  in 
my  life." 

"That  is  nothing,"  said  Hilda.  "I  write  for 
another ;  but  you  will  be  writing  for  yourself,  and 
that  makes  all  the  difference  in  the  world,  you 
know." 

"Well,  perhaps  so.  You  see,  Hilda,  I  have 
taken  a  fancy  to  try  my  hand  at  it,"  said  Zillah, 
laugiiingly,  full  of  delight  at  the  ease  witli  which 
she  had  gained  her  desire.  "You  see,"  she 
went  on,  with  unusual  sprightliness  of  manner, 
"  I  got  hold  of  a  '  Complete  Letter- Writer'  this 
morning ;  and  the  beauty,  elegance,  and  even 
eloquence  of  those  amazing  compositions  have 
so  excited  me  that  I  want  to  emulate  them. 
Now  it  happens  that  Guy  is  the  only  correspond- 
ent that  I  have,  and  so  he  must  be  my  first  vic- 
tim." 

So  saying,  Zillah  laughingly  opened  her  desk, 
while  Hilda's  dark  eyes  regarded  her  with  sharp 
and  eager  watchfulness. 

"  You  must  not  make  it  too  eloquent,  dear," 
said  she.  "Remember  the  very  commonplace 
epistles  that  you  have  been  giving  forth  in  your 
name. " 

"Don't  be  alarmed,"  said  Zillali.  "If  it  is 
not  exactly  like  a  child's  first  composition  we 
shall  all  have  great  cause  for  thankfulness. " 

So  saying,  she  took  out  a  sheet  of  paper. 

"  Here,"  said  she,  "  is  an  opportunity  of  using 
some  of  this  elaborately  monogrammed  paper 
which  poor  darling  papa  got  for  me,  because  I 
wanted  to  see  how  they  could  work  my  unprom- 
ising '  Z'  into  a  respectable  cipher.  Tlrjy  have 
made  it  utterly  illegible,  and  I  believe  thai  is  the 
great  point  to  be  attained." 


Thus  rattling  on,  she  dated  her  letter,  and  be- 
gan to  write.     She  wrote  as  far  as 

"My  dear  Guy." — Then  she  stopped,  and 
read  it  aloud. — "This  is  really  getting  most  ex- 
citing," she  said,  in  high  good-humor.  "Now 
what  comes  next  ?  To  find  a  beginning — there's 
the  rid).  I  must  turn  to  my  '  Complete  Letter- 
Writer.'  Let  mo  see.  ^  Letter  from  a  Son  at 
School' — that  won't  do.  '  From  a  Lady  to  n 
Lover  returniiu)  a  Miniature" — nor  that.  '  From 
a  Suitor  re.quextini/  to  be  allowed  to  pay  his  at- 
tentions to  a  Lady' — worse  and  worse.  '  Front 
a  Father  dcclinin;/  the  application  of  a  Suitor  for 
his  Daw/hter's  hand' — absurd!  Oh,  here  wo 
are — ^  From  a  Wife  to  a  Husband  who  is  absent 
on  urgent  business.'  Oh,  listen,  Hilda!"  and 
Zillah  read : 

"  'Bkloved  and  honored  IIusnAND, —  The 
;;rief  which  wrung  my  heart  at  your  departure  has 
been  mitigated  by  the  delight  which  I  experienced 
at  the  receipt  of  your  most  welcome  letters. '  Isn't 
that  delightful?  Unluckily  his  departure  didn't 
wring  my  heart  at  all,  and,  worse  still,  I  have 
no  grief  at  his  absence  to  be  mitigated  by  his  let- 
ters. Alas !  I'm  afraid  mine  must  be  an  ex- 
ceptional case,  for  even  my  '  Complete  Letter- 
Writer,'  my  vade-mecum,  which  goes  into  such 
charming  details,  can  not  help  me.  After  all  I 
suppose  I  must  use  my  own  poor  brains. " 

After  all  this  nonsense  Zillah  suddenly  grew 
serious.  Hilda  seemed  to  understand  the  cause 
of  her  extravagant  volatility,  a-.;',  watched  her 
closely.  Zillah  began  to  write,  and  went  on 
rapidly,  without  a  moment's  hesitation  ;  without 
any  signs  whatever  of  that  childish  inexperience 
at  which  she  had  hinted.  Her  pen  flew  over  the 
paper  with  a  speed  which  seemed  to  show  that 
she  had  plenty  to  say,  and  knew  perfectly  well 
how  to  say  it.  So  she  went  on  until  she  had 
filled  two  pages,  and  was  proceeding  to  the  third. 
Then  an  exclamation  from  Hilda  caused  her  to 
look  up. 

"My  dear  Zillah,"  cried  Hilda,  who  was  sit- 
ting in  a  chair  a  little  behind  her,  "what  in  the 
world  are  you  thinking  of?  From  this  distance 
I  can  distinguish  your  somewhat  peculiar  calig- 
raphy — with  its  bold  down  strokes  and  decided 
'character,'  that  people  talk  about.  Now,  as 
you  know  that  I  wiite  a  little,  cramped,  German 
hand,  you  will  have  to  imitate  my  humble  hand- 
writing, or  else  I'm  afraid  Captain  Molyneux 
will  be  thoroughly  puzzled — unless,  indeed,  you 
tell  him  that  you  have  been  employing  an  aman- 
uensis. That  will  require  a  good  deal  of  ex- 
planation, but — "  she  added,  after  a  thoughtful 
pause,  "I  dare  say  it  will  be  the  best  in  the 
end." 

At  these  words  Zillah  started,  dropped  her 
pen,  and  sat  looking  at  Hilda  perfectly  aghast. 

"I  never  thought  of  that,"  she  murnlured, 
and  sat  with  an  expression  of  the  deepest  dejec- 
tion.    At  length  a  long  sigh  escaped  her. 

"You  are  right,  Hilda,"  she  said.  "Of 
course  it  will  need  explanation ;  but  how  is  it 
possible  to  do  that  in  a  letter  ?  It  can't  be  done. 
At  least  I  can't  do  it.     What  shall  I  do?" 

She  was  silent,  and  sat  for  a  long  time,  look- 
ing deeply  vexed  and  disappointed. 

"  Of  course,"  she  said  at  last,  "he  will  have 
to  know  all  when  he  comes  back ;  but  that  is 
notiiing.  How  utterly  stupid  it  was  in  me  not 
to  think  of  tiie  difference  in  our  writing !    And 


48 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


now  I  Bnppooe  I  must  givp  up  my  idea  of  writing 
n  lottor.  It  is  ruully  iiaid — I  have  not  a  singlo 
i'orre.H|K)n(lLMit." 

llor  deep  dis:ip]K)intincnt,  lier  vexntion,  and 
her  fccbio  uf'iMupt  to  coiicciil  lior  emotions,  wore 
not  loHt  iipon  tiie  watclifii!  Hilda,  lint  tliu  lat- 
ter nhowed  no  signs  that  sliu  had  noticed  any 
thing. 

"Oh,  don't  give  it  np!"  she  answered,  with 
apparent  eaKernoss.  "  I  dare  say  you  can  copy 
my  hand  accurately  enough  to  avoid  detection. 
Here  is  a  note  I  wrote  yesterday.  See  if  you 
can't  imitate  that,  and  make  your  writing  as  like 
mine  as  |)ossil)le. " 

^^o  saying  she  drew  a  note  from  her  pocket 
and  handed  it  to  Zillah.  The  other  took  it  ea- 
gerly, and  began  to  try  to  imitate  it,  hut  a  few 
strokes  showed  her  the  utter  iinpossil)ility  of 
such  an  undertaking.  {She  threw  down  the  pen, 
and  leaning  licr  head  upon  her  hand,  sat  looking 
upon  the  floor  in  deeper  dejection  than  ever. 

"  I  can't  copy  such  horrid  cramped  letters," 
she  said,  pettishly  ;  "why  should  you  write  such 
a  hand  ?  Hesides,  I  feel  as  if  I  were  really  foig- 
ing,  or  doing  something  dreadful.  I  sui)pose," 
she  added,  with  unconcealed  bitterness  of  tone, 
''  wo  shall  have  to  go  on  as  we  began,  and  you 
must  be  Zillnh  Molyneux  for  some  time  longer." 

Hilda  laughed. 

"Talk  of  forging!"  she  said.  "What  is 
forging  if  that  is  not?  But  really,  Zillah,  dar- 
ling, yon  seem  to  nic  to  show  more  feeling  about 
this  than  I  ever  supposed  you  could  possibly  be 
capal)le  of  Are  you  aware  that  your  tone  is 
somewhat  bitter,  and  that  if  I  were  sensitive  I 
might  feel  hurt?  Do  you  mean  by  what  you 
said  to  lay  any  blame  to  me?" 

She  spoke  so  sadly  and  reproacli fully  that 
Zillah's  heart  smote  her.  At  once  her  disap- 
pointment and  vexation  vanished  at  the  thouglit 
that  she  had  spoken  unkindly  to  her  friend. 

"  Hilda !"  she  cried,  "you  can  not  think  that  I 
am  capable  of  such  ingratitude.  You  have  most 
generously  given  me  your  services  all  this  time. 
You  have  been  right,  from  the  very  first,  and  I 
have  been  wrong.  You  have  taken  a  world  of 
trouble  to  obviate  the  difficulties  which  my  own 
obstinacy  and  temper  have  caused.  If  any  trou- 
ble could  possibly  arise,  I  only  could  be  to  blame. 
But,  after  all,  none  can  arise.  I'm  sure  Cap- 
tain Molyneux  will  very  readily  believe  that  I 
disliked  him  too  much  when  he  first  went  away 
to  dream  of  v/riting  to  him.  He  certainly  had 
every  reason  for  thinking  so." 

"  Shall  you  tell  him  that  ?"  said  Hilda,  mild- 
ly, without  referring  to  Zillah's  apologies. 

"Certainly  I  shall,"  said  Zillah,  "if  the  op- 
portunity ever  arises.  The  simple  truth  is  al- 
ways the  easiest  and  the  best.  I  think  he  is  al- 
ready as  well  aware  as  he  can  be  of  that  fact ; 
and,  after  all,  why  should  I,  or  how  could  I,  have 
liked  him  under  .he  circumstances  ?  I  knew  no- 
thing of  him  whatever;  and  every  thing — yes, 
eveiy  thing,  was  against  him." 

"  You  know  no  more  of  him  now,"  said  Hil- 
da; "  and  yet,  though  you  are  very  reticent  on 
the  subject,  I  have  a  shrewd  suspicion,  my  dar- 
ling, that  you  do  not  dislike  him. " 

As  she  spoke  she  looked  earnestly  at  Zillah  as 
if  to  read  her  inmost  soul. 

Zillah  was  conscious  of  that  sharp,  close  scru- 
tiny, and  blushed  crimson,  as  this  question  which 


thus  concerned  her  most  snored  feelings  was 
br(night  home  to  her  so  suddenly.  But  she  an- 
swered, as  lightly  as  she  could : 

"  How  can  you  say  that,  or  even  hint  at  it? 
How  absurd  you  are,  Hilda!  I  know  no  more 
of  him  now  than  I  knew  before.  ( )f  course  I 
hear  very  much  about  him  at  Chetwyndo,  but 
what  of  that?  Ho  certainly  jjorvades  the  wholu 
atmosphere  of  the  house.  Th^j  one  idea  of  Lord 
(!hetwyndeis(iuy;  and  as  for  Mrs.  Hart,  1  think 
if  ho  wished  to  use  her  for  a  target  she  would  be 
delighted.  Death  at  such  hands  would  he  bliss 
to  her.  She  treasures  \\\i  every  word  he  has  ever 
spoken,  from  his  earliest  infancy  to  the  present 
day." 

"  And  I  suppose  that  is  enough  to  account  for 
the  charm  which  you  seem  to  find  in  her  society," 
rejoined  Hilda.  "It  has  rather  puzzled  me,  I 
confess.  For  my  own  part  I  have  never  been 
able  to  break  through  the  reserve  which  she 
chooses  to  throw  aroimd  her.  I  can  not  get 
beyond  the  barest  civilities  with  her,  though 
I'm  sure  I've  tried  to  win  her  good-will  more 
than  I  ever  tried  before,  which  is  rather  strange, 
for,  after  all,  there  is  no  reason  whatever  why  I 
should  try  any  thir.  -  of  the  kind.  She  seems  to 
have  a  very  odd  kinU  of  feeling  toward  nie.  She 
looks  at  me  sometimes  so  strangely  that  she  pos- 
itively gives  me  an  uncomfortable  feeling.  She 
seems  frightened  to  death  if  my  dress  brushes 
against  hers.  She  shrinks  away.  I  believe  she 
is  not  sane.     In  fact,  I'm  sure  of  it.'" 

"Poor  old  Mrs.  Hart!"  said  Zillah.  "  I  sup- 
pose she  does  seem  a  little  odd  to  you ;  but  I 
know  her  well,  and  I  assure  you  t-he  is  as  far  re- 
moved from  insanity  as  I  am.  Still  she  is  un- 
doubtedly (pieer.  Do  you  know,  Hilda,  she  seems 
to  me  to  have  had  some  terrible  sorrow  which  has 
crushed  all  her  spirit  and  almost  her  very  life. 
I  have  no  idea  whatever  of  her  past  life.  She  is 
very  reticent.  She  never  even  so  much  as  hints 
at  it." 

"I  dare  say  she  has  very  good  reasons,"  in- 
terrupted Hilda. 

"Don't  talk  that  way  about  her,  dear  Hilda. 
You  are  too  ill-natured,  and  I  can't  bear  to  have 
ill-natured  things  said  about  the  dear  old  thing. 
You  don't  know  her  as  I  do,  or  you  would  never 
talk  so." 

"  Oh,  Zillt\h — really — you  feel  my  little  pleas- 
antries too  much.  It  was  only  a  thoughtless  re- 
mark." 

"She  seems  to  me,"  said  Zillah,  mnsinglj', 
after  a  thoughtful  silence,  "to  be  a  very — very 
mysterious  person.  Though  I  love  her  dearly,  I 
see  that  there  is  some  mystery  about  her.  What- 
ever her  history  may  be  she  is  evidently  far  above 
her  present  position,  for  when  she  does  allow  her- 
self to  talk  she  has  the  manner  and  accent  of  a 
refined  lady.  Yes,  there  is  a  deep  mystery  about 
her,  which  is  utterly  beyond  my  comprehension. 
I  remember  once  when  she  had  been  talking  for 
a  long  time  about  Guy  and  his  wonderful  quali- 
ties, I  suddenly  happened  to  ask  her  some  trivial 
question  about  her  life  before  she  came  to  Chet- 
wynde ;  but  she  looked  at  me  so  wild  and  fright- 
ened, that  she  really  startled  me.  I  was  so  ter- 
rified that  I  instantly  changed  the  conversation, 
and  rattled  on  so  as  to  give  her  time  to  recover 
herself,  and  prevent  her  from  discoveiing  my 
feelings." 

"  Why,  how  very  romantic !"  said  Hilda,  with 


THE  CUYI'TOGIIAM. 


n  »iiiilo.  "  YouHcciti,  from  such  circuinHtanees,  1 
to  Imvo  broiiKlit  yimrHolf  to  connider  our  very 
))ro!<uic  li(>iii<okec|i«r  iih  nlmost  u  iiriiicesH  in  diH- 
(fiiiso.  I,  for  iTiy  pun,  look  upon  her  us  a  very 
cominun  person,  so  wuak-niiiuliHl,  to  say  the 
l(!nst,  as  to  he  ahnost  lialf-wittuil.  Ah  to  her 
Mccont,  tliiit  is  notliing.  I  diiru  say  she  has  seen 
better  days.  I  have  iieard  more  than  onco  of 
ladies  in  destitute  or  reduced  circumstances  who 
have  uccn  obliged  tu  take  to  housekeeping.  Aft- 
er all,  it  is  not  bad.  I'm  sure  it  must  be  fur  bet- 
ter than  being  a  governess." 

"Well,  if  I  am  romantic,  you  are  certainly 
prosaic  enough.  At  all  events  I  love  Mrs.  Hart 
dearly.  Hut  come,  Hilda,  if  you  are  going  to 
write  you  must  do  so  at  once,  for  the  letters  are 
to  be  posted  this  afternoon." 

Hilda  instantly  went  to  the  desk  and  began 
her  task.  Zillah,  however,  went  away.  Her 
chagrin  and  disappointment  were  so  great  that 
she  could  not  stay,  and  she  even  refused  after- 
ward to  look  at  the  note  which  Hilda  showed 
her.  In  fact,  after  that  she  would  never  look  at 
them  at  all. 

Some  time  after  this  Zillah  and  Mrs.  Hart 
were  together  on  one  of  those  fre<|uent  occasions 
which  tliey  made  use  of  for  contidcntial  inter- 
views. Somehow  Zillah  had  turned  the  conver- 
sation from  (iiiy  in  ]iers(m  to  the  subject  of  her 
correspondence,  and  gradiudly  told  all  to  Mrs. 
Hart.  At  this  she  looked  deeply  shocked  and 
grieved. 

"  That  girl,"  she  said,  "  has  some  secret  mo- 
tive." 

She  spoke  with  a  bitterness  which  Zillah  had 
never  before  noticed  in  her. 

"Secret  motive!"  she  repeated,  in  wonder; 
"  what  in  the  world  do  you  mean  ?" 

"She  is  bad  and  deceitful,"  said  Mrs.  Hart, 
with  energy;  "you  are  trusting  your  life  and 
honor  in  the  hands  of  a  false  friend." 

Zillah  started  back  and  looked  at  Mrs.  Hart 
in  utter  wonder. 

"I  know,"  said  she  at  last,  "that  you  don't 
like  Hilda,  but  I  feel  hurt  when  you  use  such 
language  about  her.  She  is  my  oldest  and  dearest 
friend.  She  is  my  sister  virtually.  1  have  known 
her  all  my  life,  and  know  her  to  her  heart's  core. 
She  is  incapable  of  any  dishonorable  action,  and 
she  loves  me  like  herself." 

All  Zillah's  enthusiastic  generosity  was  aroused 
in  defending  against  Mrs.  Hart's  charge  a  friend 
whom  she  so  dearly  loved. 

Mrs.  Hart  sadly  shook  her  head. 

"My  dear  child,"  said  she,  "you  know  I 
would  not  hurt  your  feelings  for  the  world.  I 
am  sorry.  I  will  say  nothing  more  about  her, 
since  you  love  her.  But  don't  you  feel  that  you 
are  in  a  very  false  position  ?" 

"  But  what  can  I  do  ?  There  is  the  difficidty 
about  the  handwriting.  And  then  it  has  gone 
on  so  long." 

"  Write  to  him  at  all  hazards,"  said  Mrs.  Hart, 
"and  tell  him  every  thing." 

Zillah  shook  her  head. 

"  Well,  then— -will  you  let  me  ?" 

"  How  can  I  ?  No ;  it  must  be  done  by  my- 
self— if  it  ever  is  done :  and  as  to  writing  it  my- 
self— I  can  not." 

Snch  a  thought  was  indeed  abhorrent.  After 
all  it  seemed  to  her  in  itself  nothing.  She  em- 
ployed an  amanuensis  to  compose  those  formal 


notes  which  went  in  her  name.  And  what  fault 
was  there  ?  To  Mrs.  Hart,  whose  whole  life  wus 
bound  up  in  Ciuy,  it  was  impossible  to  look  at  this 
matter  except  as  to  how  it  afl'ected  him.  But 
Zillah  had  other  feelings — other  memories.  The 
very  proposal  to  write  a  "confession"  lired  her 
heart  with  stern  indigiuition.  At  onco  all  her 
resentment  was  roused.  Memory  brought  buck 
again  in  vivid  colors  that  hideous  mockery  of  a 
marriage  over  the  death-bed  of  her  father,  with 
reference  to  which,  in  spite  of  her  changed  feel- 
ings, she  had  never  ceased  to  think  that  it  might 
have  been  avoidc<l,  and  ought  to  have  l>een.  Could 
she  stoop  to  confess  to  this  man  any  thing  what- 
ever?    Im])ossible! 

Mrs.  Hart  did  not  know  Zillah's  thoughts.  She 
supposed  she  was  trying  to  (ind  a  way  to  extri- 
cate herself  from  her  difficulty.  So  she  made 
one  further  suggestion. 

"  Why  not  tell  all  to  Lord  Chetwynde  ?  Sure- 
ly yon  can  do  that  easily  enough.  He  will  un- 
derstand all,  and  explain  all." 

"  I  con  not,"  said  Zillah,  coldly.  "  It  would 
be  doubting  my  friend — the  loving  friend  who  is 
to  me  the  same  as  a  sister — who  is  the  only  com- 
panion I  have  ever  had.  She  is  the  one  that  I 
l)\o  dearest  on  earth,  and  to  do  any  thing  apart 
from  hc"  is  impo.ssible.  You  do  not  know  her — 
I  do — and  I  love  her.  For  her  I  would  give  up 
every  other  friend." 

At  this  Mrs.  Hart  looked  sadly  away,  and 
then  the  matter  of  the  letters  ended.  It  wus 
never  again  brought  up. 


CIIAPTKR  XIII. 

POMEROY   COURT   REVISFTED. 

Over  a  year  had  passed  away  since  Zillah  had 
come  to  live  at  Chetwynde  Castle,  and  she  had 
come  at  length  to  find  her  new  home  almost  as 
dear  to  her  as  the  old  one.  Still  that  old  home 
was  far  from  being  forgotten.  At  first  she  never 
mentioned  it ;  but  nt  length,  as  the  year  approach- 
ed its  close,  there  came  over  her  a  great  longing 
to  revisit  the  old  place,  so  dear  to  her  heart  and 
so  well  remembered.  She  hinted  to  Lord  Chet- 
wynde what  her  desires  were,  and  the  Earl  show- 
ed unfeigned  delight  at  finding  that  Zillah's  grief 
had  become  so  far  mitigated  as  to  allow  her  to 
think  of  such  a  thing.  So  he  urged  her  by  all 
meai]s  to  go. 

"  But  of  course  yon  can't  go  just  yet,"  said  he. 
"You  must  wait  till  May,  when  the  place  will  be 
at  its  best.  Just  now,  at  the  end  of  March,  it 
will  be  too  cold  and  damp." 

"And  you  will  go  with  me — will  you  not?" 
pleaded  Zillah. 

"  If  I  can,  my  child ;  but  you  know  very  well 
i  that  I  am  not  able  to  stand  the  fatigue  of  trav- 
eling." 

"  Oh,  but  you  must  make  an  effort  and  try  to 
stand  it  this  time.  I  can  not  bear  to  go  away 
and  leave  you  behind. " 

Lord  Chetwynde  looked  affectionately  down 
at  the  face  which  was  upturned  so  lovingly  to- 
ward his,  and  promised  to  go  if  he  could.  So 
the  weeks  passed  away ;  but  when  May  came  he 
had  a  severe  attack  of  gout,  and  though  Zillah 
waited  through  all  the  month,  until  the  severity 
of  the  disease  had  relaxed,  yet  the  Earl  did  not 


4mm'^ 


50 


THE  CRYPTOGHAM. 


find  himself  able  to  undertake  such  a  journey. 
"  Zillali  was  therefore  compelled  either  to  give  rij) 
0.  the  visit  or  else  to  go  without  him.  She  decided 
to  do  the  latter.  Roberts  accomjiiinied  her,  and 
her  maid  Mathilde.  Hilda  too,  of  course,  went 
■,vith  her,  for  to  her  it  was  as  great  a  pleasure  as 
to  Zillah  to  visit  the  old  place,  and  Zillah  would 
not  have  dreamed  of  going  any  where  without 
her. 

Pomeroy  Court  looked  very  much  as  it  had 
looked  while  Zillah  was  living  there.  It  had 
been  well  and  even  scrupidously  cared  for.  The 
grounds  around  showed  marks  of  the  closest  at- 
tention. Inside,  the  old  housekeeper,  who  had 
remained  after  the  General's  death,  with  some 
servanis,  had  preserved  every  thing  in  perfect  or- 
der, and  in  quite  the  same  state  as  when  the 
(ieneral  was  living.  This  perfect  preservation 
of  the  past  struck  Zillah  most  painfully.  As  she 
entered,  the  intermediate  period  of  her  life  at 
Chetwynde  seemed  to  fade  away.  It  was  to  her 
as  thougti  she  were  still  living  in  her  old  home. 
She  half  expected  to  see  the  form  of  hsr  father 
in  the  haJI.  The  consciousness  of  her  tii.e  posi- 
tion was  violently  forced  upon  her.  With  the 
sharpness  of  the  impression  which  was  made 
upon  her  by  the  unchanged  appearance  of  the 
old  home,  there  came  another  none  less  sharp. 
If  Pomeroy  Court  brought  back  to  her  the  recol- 
lection of  the  hnppy  days  once  spent  there,  but 
now  gone  forever,  it  also  brought  to  her  mind  the 
full  consciousness  of  her  loss.  To  her  it  was  in- 
fandum  renovare  dolorem.  She  walked  in  a  deep 
melancholy  through  the  dear  familiar  rooms. 
She  lingered  in  profound  abstraction  and  in  the 
deepest  saduesi^  over  the  mournful  reminders  of 
the  past.  She  looked  over  all  the  old  home  ob- 
jects, stood  in  the  old  places,  and  sat  in  the  old 
seats.     She  walked  in  silence  through  all  the 


house,  and  finally  went  to  her  own  old  room,  so 
loved,  so  well  remembered.  As  she  crossed  the 
threshold  and  looked  around  she  felt  her  strength 
(ifjve  way.  A  great  sob  escaped  her,  and  sinking 
into  a  chair  where  she  once  used  to  sit  in  ha])- 
|)ier  days,  she  gave  herself  up  to  her  recollections. 
For  a  long  time  she  lost  herself  in  these.  Hilda 
had  left  her  to  herself,  as  though  her  delicacy 
had  prompted  her  not  to  intrude  upon  her  friend 
at  such  a  moment ;  and  Zillah  tliought  of  this 
with  a  feeling  of  grateful  attection.  At  length 
she  resumed  to  some  degree  her  calmness,  and 
summoning  up  all  her  strength,  she  went  at  last 
to  the  chamber  where  that  dread  scene  had  been 
enacted — that  scene  which  seemed  to  her  a  double 
tragedy — that  scene  which  had  burned  itself  in 
her  memory,  combining  the  horror  of  the  death 
of  her  dearest  friend  with  the  ghastly  farce  of  a 
forced  and  unhallowed  marriage.  In  that  place 
a  full  tide  of  misery  rushed  over  her  soul.  She 
broke  down  utterly.  Chetwynde  Castle,  the  Karl. 
Mrs.  Hart,  all  were  forgotten.  The  past  faded 
.iway  utterly.  This  only  was  her  true  home — 
tins  ])lace  darkened  by  a  cloud  which  might  never 
be  dispelled. 

"Oh,  papa!  Oh,  papa!"  she  moaned,  and 
Hung  herself  upon  the  bed  where  he  had  breath- 
ed liis  last. 

But  her  soitow  now,  though  overwhelming, 
had  changed  from  its  old  vehemence.  This 
change  had  been  wrought  in  Zillah — the  old,  un- 
reasoning passion  had  left  her.  A  real  afflic- 
tion had  brought  out,  by  its  gradual  renovating 
and  creative  force,  all  the  good  that  wau  in 
her.  That  the  uses  of  adversity  are  sweet,  is  a 
hackneyed  Shakspeareanism,  but  it  is  forever 
true,  and  nowhere  was  its  truth  more  fnlly  dis- 
played than  here.  Formerly  it  happened  th..t 
an  ordinary  check  in  the  way  of  her  desires  was 
sutlicient  to  send  her  almost  into  convulsions; 
but  now,  in  the  presence  of  her  great  calamity, 
she  had  learned  to  bear  with  patience  all  the  or- 
dinary ills  of  life.  Her  father  iiad  spoiled  her; 
by  his  death  she  had  become  regenerate. 

This  tendency  of  her  nature  toward  a  purer 
and  loftier  standard  was  intensiHed  by  her  visit 
to  Pomeroy  Court.  Over  her  spirit  tiiere  came 
a  profounder  earnestness,  caught  from  the  solemn 
scenes  in  the  midst  of  which  she  found  herself. 
Sorrow  had  subdued  and  quieted  the  wild  im- 
pulsive motions  of  her  soul.  This  renewal  of 
that  sorrow  in  the  very  place  of  its  birth,  deep- 
ened the  eflfect  of  its  first  presence.  This  visit 
did  more  for  her  intellectual  and  spiritual  growth 
than  the  whole  past  year  at  Chetwynde  Castle. 

They  spent  about  a  month  here.  Zillah,  who 
had  formerly  been  so  talkative  and  restless,  now 
showed  plainly  the  fullness  of  the  change  that 
had  come  over  her  She  had  grown  into  p  life 
far  more  serious  and  thoughtful  than  any  which 
she  had  known  before.  Slie  had  ceased  to  be  a 
giddy  and  unreasoning  girl.  She  had  become  a 
calm,  grave,  t'loughtful  woman.  But  her  calm- 
ness and  g.  ■  .ity  and  thoughtfiilness  were  all  un- 
derlaid and  interpenetrated  by  the  fervid  vehe- 
mence of  her  intense  Oriental  nature.  Beneath 
the  English  exterior  lay,  deep  within  her,  the 
Hindu  blood.  She  was  of  that  sort  which  can 
be  calm  in  ordinary  life — so  calm  as  to  conceal 
utterly  all  ordinary  workings  of  the  fretful  soul ; 
but  which,  in  the  face  of  any  great  excitement, 
or  in  the  presence  of  any  gi-eat  wrong,  will  be  all 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


51 


ovenvhelrneil  nnd  transformed  into  a  furious  tor- 
nado of  pnssionate  rage. 

Zilluh,  thu8  silent  and  meditative,  and  so 
(•hanged  from  her  olil  self,  might  well  have 
awakened  the  wonder  of  her  friend.  But  what- 
ever Hilda  may  have  thought,  and  whatever 
wonder  she  may  have  felt,  she  kept  it  all  to  '  "^r- 
self ;  for  she  was  naturally  reticent,  and  so  secre- 
tive that  she  never  expressed  in  words  any  feel- 
ings which  she  might  have  about  things  that 
went  on  around  her.  If  Zillah  chose  to  stay  by 
herself,  o-  to  sit  in  her  company  without  speak- 
ing a  word,  it  was  not  in  Hilda  to  question  her 
or  to  remonstrate  with  her.  She  rather  chose 
to  accommodate  herself  to  the  temper  of  her 
friend.  She  could  also  be  meditative  and  |)ro- 
foundly  silent.  While  Zillah  had  been  talka- 
tive, she  had  talked  with  her ;  now,  in  her  si- 
lence, she  rivaled  her  as  well.  She  could  follow 
Zillah  in  all  her  moods. 

At  the  end  of  a  month  they  returned  to  Chet- 
wynde  Castle,  and  resumed  the  life  which  they 
had  been  leading  there.  Zillah's  new  mood 
seemed  to  Hilda,  and  to  others  also,  to  last  much 
longer  than  any  one  of  those  many  moods  in 
which  she  had  indulged  before.  But  this  proved 
to  be  more  than  a  mood.     It  was  a  change. 

The  ])roinise  which  she  had  given  to  the  Earl 
she  had  tried  to  fulfill  most  conscientiously.  She 
really  hixd  striven  as  much  as  possible  to  "study. " 
That  better  understanding,  bom  of  affection, 
which  h;\d  arisen  between  them,  had  formed  a 
new  moti\e  within  her,  and  rendered  her  capa- 
ble of  something  like  application.  Hut  it  was 
not  imtil  after  her  visit  to  Pomeroy  Court  that 
she  showed  any  effort  that  was  at  all  ade(|uate  to 
the  purj)ose  before  her.  The  change  that  then 
came  over  her  seemed  to  have  given  her  a  new 
control  o\'T!r  herself.  And  so  it  was  that,  at  last, 
the  hours  devoted  to  her  studies  were  filled  up 
by  efforts  that  were  really  earnest,  and  also  really 
effective. 

Under  these  circumstances,  it  happened  that 
Zillah  began  at  last  to  engross  Gualtier's  atten- 
tion altogether,  during  the  whole  of  the  time  al- 
lotted to  her ;  and  if  he  had  sought  ever  so  earn- 
estly, ho  could  not  have  found  any  opportunity 
for  a  private  interview  with  Hilda.  What  her 
wishes  miglit  be  was  not  visible ;  for,  whether  she 
wished  it  ci  not,  she  did  not,  in  any  way,  show 
it.  She  \>.is  always  the  same — calm,  cool,  civil, 
to  her  music-teacher,  and  devoted  to  her  own 
share  of  the  studies,  'ihose  little  "asides"  in 
which  they  had  once  indulged  were  now  out  of 
the  question ;  and,  even  if  a  favorable  occasion 
had  arisen,  Gualtier  would  not  have  ventured 
upon  the  undertaking.  He,  for  his  part,  could 
not  possibly  know  her  thoughts :  whether  she 
was  still  cherishing  her  old  designs,  or  had  given 
them  uj)  altogether.  He  coulil  only  stifle  his  im- 
patience, and  wait,  and  watch,  and  wait.  But 
now  was  it  with  her?  Was  she,  too,  watching 
and  waiting  for  some  opportunity  ?  He  thoi-^l.' 
so.  But  with  what  aim,  or  for  what  purjose: 
That  was  the  puzzle.  Yet  that  there  was  some- 
thing on  her  mind  which  she  wished  to  com'mimi- 
cate  to  him  he  knew  well ;  for  it  had  at  last  hap- 
pened that  Hihla  had  changed  in  some  degree 
from  her  cool  and  undemonstrative  manner.  He 
encountered  sometimes — or  thought  that  he  en- 
countered— an  earnest  glance  which  she  threw 
nt  him,  on  greeting  him,  full  of  meaning,  which 


told  him  this  most  plainly.  It  seemed  to  him 
to  say :  Wait,  wait,  wait ;  when  the  time  comes, 
I  have  that  to  say  which  you  will  be  glad  to 
learn.  What  it  might  be  he  knew  not,  nor  could 
I  he  conjecture ;  but  he  thought  that  it  might  still 
refer  to  the  secret  of  that  mysterious  cipher 
which  had  bafHed  them  both. 

Thus'  these  two  watched  and  waited.     Months 
passed  away,  but  no  opportunity  for  an  interview 
arose.     Of  course,  if  Hilda  had  been  reckless,  or 
j  if  it  had  been  absolutely  necessary  to  have  one, 
I  she  could  easily  have  arranged  it.     The  park  was 
I  wide,  full  of  lonely  paths  and  sequestered  re- 
!  treats,  where  meetings  could  have  been   had, 
I  quite  free  from  all  danger  of  observation  or  in- 
I  terruption.     She  needed  only  to  slip  a  note  into 
j  his  hand,  lelling  him  to  meet  her  at  some  place 
there,  and  he  would  obey  her  will.     But  Hilda 
!  did  not  c'^oose  to  do  any  thing  of  the  kinu. 
Whatever  she  did  could  only  be  done  by  her  in 
strict   accordance   with    les  convenances.      She 
would  have  waited  for  months  before  she  would 
consent  to  compromise  herself  so  far  as  to  solicit 
a  stolen  interview.     It  was  not  the  dread  of  dis-' 
covery,  howe\er,  that  deterred  her;   for,  in  a 
place  like  Chetwynde,  that  need  not  have  been 
I  -i'eared,  and  if  she  had  been  so  disposed,  she 
could  have  had  an  interview  with  Gualtier  every 
week,  which  no  one  would  have  found  out.     The 
,  thing  which  deterred  her  was  something  very 
I  different  from  this.     It  was  her  own  pride.     She 
!  could  not  humble  herself  so  far  as  -to  do  this. 
'  Such  an  act  would  be  to  descend  from  the  posi- 
tion which  she  at  jjresent  occupied  in  his  eyes. 
To  compromise  herself,  or  in  any  way  put  herself 
in  his  ])ower-  was  impossible  for  one  like  her. 

It  was  not,  however,  from  any  thing  like  moral 
cowardice  tb:it  she  held  aloof  from  making  an 
interview  with  him ;  nor  was  it  from  any  thing 
like  conscientious  scruples ;  nor  yet  from  maid- 
enly modesty.  It  arose,  most  of  all,  from  pride, 
and  also  from  a  profound  perception  of  the  ad- 
vantages enjoyed  by  one  who  fidfilled  all  that 
might  be  demanded  by  the  jjroprieties  of  life. 
Her  aim  was  to  see  Gualtier  under  circumstances 
that  were  unimpeachable — in  the  room  where  he 
had  a  right  to  come.  To  do  more  than  this 
might  lower  herself  in  his  eyes,  and  make  him 
presumptuous. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 


NEW    DISCOVEniES. 


At  last  the  opportunity  came  for  which  they 
had  waited  so  long. 

For  many  months  Zillah's  application  to  her 
studies  had  been  incessant,  and  the  Earl  began 
to  notice  signs  of  weariness  in  her.  His  con- 
science smote  him,  and  his  anxiety  was  aroused. 
He  had  recovered  from  his  gout,  and  as  he  felt 
jjarticularly  well  he  determined  to  take  Zillah  on 

'ong  drive,  thinking  that  the  change  would  be 
ht..  ""ial  to  her.  He  began  to  fear  that  he  had 
broughi  '00  ^reat  a  pressure  to  bear  on  her,  and 
that  she  in  hv  •  new-born  zeal  for  study  might 
carry  her  self-devv-tior  too  far,  and  do  some  in- 
jury to  her  health.  Hilda  dcilined  going,  and 
Zillah  and  the  Earl  started  off  for  the  day. 

On  that  day  (iualticr  came  at  his  nsual  hour. 
On  looking  round  the  room  he  suw  no  signs  of 


'.W'llW'JgW 


•^  '^^-Y^'^TrrWi^^^'W^l^T^fr^^'''^."^^ 


52 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


M 


Zillah,  and  his  eyes  brightened  as  thev  fell  on 
Hilda. 

"Mrs.  Molyneux,"  said  she,  after  the  usual 
civilities,  "has  gone  out  for  a  drive.  She  will 
not  take  her  lesson  to-day." 

"  Ah,  well,  sliall  I  wait  till  your  hour  arrives, 
or  v/ill  you  take  your  lesson  now?" 

"  Oh,  you  need  not  wait,"  said  Hilda ;  "  I  will 
take  my  lesson  now.  I  think  I  will  appropriate 
both  hours." 

There  was  a  glance  of  peculiar  meaning  in 
Hilda's  eyes  wiiich  Gualtier  noticed,  but  he  cast 
his  eyes  meekly  upon  the  floor.  He  had  an  idea 
that  the  long  looked  for  revelation  was  about  to 
be  given,  but  he  did  not  attempt  to  hasten  it  in 
arjy  way.  He  was  afraid  that  hny  expression  of 
eagerness  on  his  part  might  repel  Hilda,  and, 
therefore,  he  would  not  endanger  his  position  by 
asking  for  any  thing,  but  rather  waited  to  receive 
what  she  might  voluntarily  offer. 

Hilda,  however,  was  not  at  all  anxious  to  be 
asked.  Now  that  elie  could  converse  with  Gual- 
tier, and  not  compromise  herself,  she  had  made 
up  her  mind  to  give  him  her  confidence.  It  was 
safe  to  talk  to  this  man  in  this  joom.  The  serv- 
ants were  few.  They  were  far  away.  No  one 
would  dream  of  trying  to  listen.  They  were  sit- 
ting close  together  near  the  piano. 

"I  have  something  to  say  to  you, "said  Hilda 
at  last. 

Gudltier  looked  at  her  with  earnest  inquiry, 
but  said  notiiing. 

"You  remember,  of  course,  what  we  were 
talking  about  the  last  time  we  spoke  to  one  an- 
other?" 

"Of  course,  I  have  never  forgotten  that." 
"It  was  nearly  two  years  ago,"  said  Hilda, 
"At  one  time  I  did  not  expect  tiiat  such  a  con- 
versation could  ever  be  renewed.  With  the  Gen- 
eral's death  all  need  for  it  seemed  to  be  de- 
stroyed. But  now  that  need  seems  to  have 
arisen  again." 

"  Have  you  ever  deciphered  the  paper  ?"  asked 
Gualtier. 

"  Not  more  than  before,"  said  Hilda.  "  But 
I  have  made  a  discovery  of  the  very  greatest 
importance ;  sometiiing  which  entirely  confirms 
my  former  suspicions  gathered  from  the  cipher. 
They  are  additional  papers  which  I  will  show 
you  presently,  and  then  you  will  see  whether  I 
am  riRlit  or  not.  I  never  exjjected  to  find  any 
thing  of  the  kind.  1  found  them  quite  by  chance, 
while  I  was  half  mechanically  carrying  out  my 
old  idea.  After  tiie  General's  death  I  lost  all 
interest  in  the  matter  for  some  time,  for  there 
seemed  before  me  no  particular  inducement  to 
go  on  with  it.  Hut  this  discovery  has  changed 
the  whole  aspect  of  the  afl'air." 

"What  was  it  that  you  found?"  asked  Gual- 
tier, who  was  full  of  curiosity.  "  Was  it  the 
key  to  the  cipher,  or  was  it  a  full  explanation,  or 
was  it  something  ditt'erent  ?" 

"They  were  certain  letters  and  business  pa- 
pers. I  will  show  them  to  you  presently,  liut 
before  doing  so  I  want  to  begin  at  tlie  beginning. 
The  whole  of  that  cipher  is  perfectly  familiar  to 
me,  all  its  difficulties  are  as  insurmountable  as 
ever,  and  before  I  show  you  tiiese  new  pa])er8  I 
want  to  refresh  your  memory  altout  the  old  ones. 
"  You  remember,  first  oi"  all,"  said  she,  "  the 
peculiar  chanicter  of  that  cipher  writing,  and  of 
my  interpretation.      The  pnrt  that  I  deciphered 


seemed  to  be  set  in  the  other  like  a  wedge,  and 
while  this  was  decipherable  the  other  was  not." 

Gualtier  nodded. 

"  Now  I  want  you  to  read  again  the  part  that 
I  deciphered,"  said  Hilda,  and  she  handed  him 
a  piece  of  pajier  on  which  something  was  written. 
Gualtier  took  it  and  read  the  following,  which 
the  reader  has  already  seen.  Each  sentence  was 
numbered. 

1.  Oh  may  Qod  have  mercy  mi  my  wretched  soul 
Amen 

2.  0  Pomeroy  forged  a  hundred  thousand  di)llar% 

3.  O  N  Pomeroy  eloped  with  poor  Lady  Chctwynde 

4.  She  acted  out  of  a  inad  impulse  in  Hying 
6.  /S'Ae  listened  to  me  atid  ran  off  with  me 

6.  Hhe  was  piqued  at  her  htisband's  act 

7.  Fell  in  with  Lady  Mary  CheUmjnd 

8.  ExiM'lled  the  army  for  gaming 

9.  A'  I'omcroy  of  Pomeroy  Berks 
10.  0  I  am  a  miserable  villain 

Gualtier  looked  over  it  and  then  hfiiui'  '  it 
back. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  I  remember,  of  course,  for 
I  hapi)en  to  know  every  word  of  it  by  heart." 

"  That  is  very  well,"  said  Hilda,  ni)provingly. 
"  And  now  I  want  to  remind  you  of  the  difficul- 
ties in  my  interpietation  before  going  on  any  fur- 
ther. 

' '  You  remember  that  these  were,  first,  the  con- 
fusion in  the  way  of  writing  the  name,  for. here 
there  is  'O  Pomeroy,'  'O  N  Pomeroy, '  and  'N 
Pomeroy,'  in  so  short  a  document. 

"  Next,  there  is  the  mixture  of  persons,  the 
writer  sometimes  speaking  in  the  first  person  and 
sometimes  in  the  ihird,  as,  for  instance,  when  he 
says,  '  O  N  Pomeroy  eloped  with  poor  Lady 
Chetwynde;'  and  then  he  says,  'She  listened 
to  me  and  ran  off'  with  me.' 

"  And  then  there  are  the  incomplete  sentences, 
such  as,  "Fell  in  with  Lady  Mary  Chetwynd' — 
'  Expelled  the  army  for  gaming.' 

"Lastly,  there  are  two  ways  in  which  the 
lady's  name  is  spelled,  '  C'hetwynde,'  and  '  Chet- 
wynd.' 

"  You  remember  we  decided  that  these  might 
be  accounted  for  in  one  of  two  ways.  Either, 
first,  the  writer,  in  copying  it  out,  grew  confused 
in  forming  his  cipher  characters ;  or,  secondly, 
he  framed  the  whole  j)aper  with  a  deliberate  pur- 
pose to  baffle  and  perplex." 

"  I  remen-ber  all  this,"'  said  Gualtier,  quietly. 
"I  have  not  forgotten  it." 

"  The  General's  death  changed  the  aspect  of 
aff'airs  so  completely,"  said  Hilda,  "and  made 
this  so  apparently  useless,  that  I  thought  you 
might  have  forgotten  at  least  these  miinite  jmr- 
ticulars.  It  is  necessary  for  you  to  have  these 
things  fre.sh  in  your  mind,  so  as  to  regard  the 
whole  subject  thoroughly." 

' '  But  what  good  will  any  discovery  be  now  ?" 
asked  Gualtier,  with  unfeigned  surprise.  "  The 
General  is  dead,  and  you  can  do  nothing." 

"  Tbe  General  is  dead,''  said  Hilda ;  "  but  the 
General's  daughter  lives." 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  bitterness  of  the 
tone  in  which  she  uttered  these  words. 

"His  daughter!  Of  what  iM)ssible  concern 
can  'all  this  be  to  her?"  asiked  Gualtier,  who 
wished  to  get  at  the  bottom  of  Hilda's  purpose. 

"  I  should  never  have  tried  to  strike  at  the  (Gen- 
eral," said  Hilda,  "  if  he  had  not  had  a  daughter. 
It  was  not  him  that  I  wished  to  harm.  It  was 
her:' 

"And  now,"  said  Gualtier,  after  a  silence, 


TE      ^HYPTOGRAM. 


68 


it 


for 


"  she  is  out  of  your  reach.  Slie  is  Mrs.  Moly- 
neux.  Slie  will  lie  tlie  Countess  of  Chetwynde. 
How  can  slie  he  haiined?" 

As  he  s])oke  he  looked  with  a  swift  interroga- 
tive glance  at  Hilda,  and  then  turned  away  his 
eyes. 

"True,"  said  Hilda,  cautiously  and  slowly; 
"  she  is  beyond  my  reach.  Besides,  you  will  ob- 
serve that  1  was  si)cakiiig  of  the  jiast.  I  was 
telling  what  I  wished — not  wliat  I  wish." 

"That  is  precisely  what  I  understood,"  said 
Gualtier.  "1  only  asked  so  as  to  know  how 
your  wishes  now  inclined.  I  am  anxious  to 
serve  you  in  any  way. " 

"(So  you  have  said  before,  and  I  take  you  at 
your  word,"  .said  Hilda,  calmly.  "I  have  once 
before  reposed  confidence  in  you,  and  I  intend  to 
do  so  again." 

Gualtier  bowed,  and  murmured  some  words  of 
grateful  acknowledgment. 

"My  work  now,"  said  Hilda,  without  seeming 
to  notice  him,  "  is  one  of  investigation.  I  mere- 
ly wish  to  get  to  the  bottom  of  a  secret.  It  is  to 
this  that  1  have  concluded  to  invite  your  assist- 
ance." 

"You  are  assured  of  that  ah'eady.  Miss  Krieff," 
said  Gualtier,  in  a  tone  of  deep  devotion.  "  Call 
it  investigation,  or  call  it  any  thing  you  choose, 
if  you  deign  to  ask  my  assistance  I  will  Jo  any 
thing  ann  dare  any  thing." 

Hilda  laughed  harshly. 

"  In  truth, "  said  she.  dryly,  "  this  does  not  re- 
quire much  dating,  but  it  may  cause  trouble — it 
may  also  take  up  valuable  time.  I  do  not  ask 
for  any  risks,  but  rather  for  the  employment  of 
the  most  ordinary  qualities.  Patience  aiui  per- 
severance will  do  all  that  I  wish  to  have 
done." 

"  I  am  sorry.  Miss  Krieff,  that  there  is  nothing 
more  than  this.  I  should  prefer  to  go  on  some 
enterprise  of  danger  for  yoin-  sake." 

He  laid  n  strong  emphasis  on  these  last  words, 
but  Hilda  did  not  seem  to  notice  it.  She  con- 
tinued, in  a  calm  tone  : 

"All  this  is  talking  in  the  dark.  I  must  ex- 
plain myself  instead  of  talking  round  about  the 
subject.  To  begin,  then.  Since  our  last  inter- 
view I  could  find  out  nothing  whatever  that  tend- 
ed to  ilu'ow  any  light  on  that  mysterious  cipher 
writing.  Why  it  was  written,  or  why  it  should 
be  so  carefully  pre  >rved,  I  coidd  not  discover. 
The  General's  deatu  seemed  to  make  it  useless, 
and  so  for  a  long  time  I  ceased  to  think  about  it. 
It  was  oidy  on  my  lasi  visit  to  Pomeroy  Court 
that  it  came  to  my  mind.  That  was  six  or  eight 
months  ago. 

"On  going  there  Mrs.  Molyneux  gave  herself 
up  to  grief,  and  scarcely  ever  spoke  a  word.  She 
was  much  by  herself,  and  brooded  over  her  sor- 
rows. She  si)ent  much  time  in  her  father's  room, 
and  still  more  time  in  solitary  walks  about  the 
groimds.  I  was  much  by  myself.  Left  thus 
alone,  1  rambled  about  the  house,  and  one  day 
liap)iened  to  go  to  the  (ieneral's  study.  Here 
every  thing  remained  almost  exactly  as  it  used 
to  be.  It  was  here  that  I  fouiul  the  cipher 
writing,  and,  on  visiting  it  again,  the  circum- 
stances of  that  discovery  naturally  suggested 
themselves  to  my  mind." 

Hilda  had  warmed  with  her  theme,  and  spoke 
with  something  like  recklessness,  as  though  she 
was  prepared  at  last  to  throw  away  every  scruple 


and  make  a  full  confidence.  The  allusjon  to  the 
discovery  of  the  cipher  was  a  reminder  to  her- 
self and  to  (Jualtier  of  her  former  dishonorable 
conduct.  Having  once  more  touched  upon  this. 
it  was  easier  for  her  to  reveal  new  treachery  upon 
her  part.  Nevertheless  she  paused  for  a  moment, 
and  looked  with  earnest  scrutiny  upon  her  coni- 
])anion.  He  regarded  her  with  a  look  of  .silent 
devotion  which  seemed  to  express  any  degree  of 
sid)serviency  to  her  interests,  and  disarmed  every 
suspicion.     Reassured  by  this,  she  continued  : 

"It  happened  that  I  began  to  examine  the 
General's  papers.  It  was  quite  accidental,  and 
arose  merely  from  the  fact  that  I  had  nothing 
else  to  do.  It  was  almost  mechanical  on  my 
part.  At  any  rate  I  opened  the  desk,  and  foinid 
it  full  of  documents  of  all  kinds  which  had  been 
apparently  undisturbed  for  an  indefinite  period. 
Naturally  enough  I  examined  the  drawer  in  which 
I  had  found  the  cipher  writing,  and  was  able  to 
do  so  quite  at  my  leisure.  On  first  opening  it  I 
found  only  some  business  papers.  The  cipher 
was  no  longer  there.  I  searched  among  all  the 
other  papers  to  find  it,  but  in  vain.  I  then  con- 
cluded that  he  had  destroyed  it.  For  several 
days  I  continued  to  examine  that  desk,  but  with 
no  result.  It  seemed  to  fascinate  me.  At  last, 
however,  I  came  to  the  conclusion  that  nothing 
more  could  be  discovered. 

"All  this  time  Mrs.  Molyneux  left  me  quite 
to  myself,  and  my  search  in  the  desk  and  my 
discouragement  were  altogether  unknown  to  her. 
After  about  a  week  I  gave  up  the  desk  and  tore 
myself  away.  Still  I  could  not  keep  away  from 
it,  and  at  the  end  of  another  week  I  returned  to 
the  search.  This  time  I  went  with  the  intention 
of  examining  all  the  drawers,  to  see  if  there  was 
not  some  additional  place  of  concealment. 

"It  is  not  necessary  for  me  to  describe  to  you 
minutely  the  various  trials  which  I  made.  It  is 
quite  enough  for  me  now  to  say  that  I  at  last 
found  out  that  in  that  very  private  drawer  where 
I  had  first  discovered  the  ci])her  writing  there  was 
a  false  bottom  of  very  peculiar  cor.struction.  It 
lay  close  to  the  real  bottom,  fitting  in  very  nicely, 
and  left  room  only  for  a  few  thin  papers.  The 
false  bottom  and  the  real  bottoin  were  so  thin  that 
no  one  could  suspect  any  thing  of  the  kind. 
Something  about  the  position  of  the  drawer  led 
me  to  examine  it  minutely,  anil  the  idea  of  a  false 
bottoin  came  to  my  mind.  I  could  not  find  out 
the  secret  of  it,  and  if  vas  only  by  the  very  rude 
process  of  prying  at  it  with  a  knife  that  I  at  • 
length  made  the  discovery. " 

She  ]>auscd. 

"  And  did  you  find  any  thing  ?"  said  Gualtier, 
eagerly. 

"Idid.' 

"Papers?' 

"Yes.  The  old  cipher  writing  was  there — shut 
up — concealed  carefully,  jealously — doubly  con- 
cealed, in  fart.  Was  not  this  enough  to  show  that 
it  had  importance  in  the  eyes  of  the  man  who  had 
thus  concealed  it  ?  It  must  be  so.  Nothing  but 
a  belief  in  its  immense  importance  could  jiossi- 
bly  have  led  to  such  extrnonlinary  pains  in  the 
concealment  of  it.  This  I  felt,  and  this  convic- 
tion only  intensified  my  desire  to  get  at  the  bot- 
tom of  the  mystery  which  it  incloses.  And  this 
much  I  saw  |ilainly — that  the  deciphering  which 
I  have  made  carries  in  itself  so  dread  a  confes- 
sion, that  the  man  who  made  it  would  willingly 


■7T 


54 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


''pi 
(1 


THE  OLD  CIPHER  WRITING  WAS  THERE. 


conceal  it  both  in  cijjher  writing  and  in  secret 
drawers." 

"But  of  course,"  said  Gualtier,  taking  ad- 
vantage of  a  pause,  "  you  found  something  else 
besides  the  cipher.  With  that  you  were  already 
familiar." 

"  Yes,  and  it  is  this  that  I  am  going  to  tell 
you  about.  There  were  some  papers  which 
had  evidently  been  there  for  a  long  time,  kept 
there  in  the  same  j)laco  with  the  cipiier  writing. 
When  I  first  found  them  I  merely  looked  hasti- 
ly over  tiiem,  and  then  folded  them  all  up  to- 
gether, and  took  them  away  so  as  to  examine 
them  in  my  own  room  at  leisure.  On  looking 
over  them  I  found  the  names  which  I  expected 
occurring  frecjuently.  There  was  the  name  of 
O.  N.  J.'omeroy  and  the  name  of  Lady  Chet- 
wynde.  In  addition  to  these  there  was  another 
name,  and  a  very  singular  one.  The  name  is 
Obed  Chute,  and  seems  to  me  to  he  an  Amer- 
ican name.  At  any  rate  the  owner  of  it  lived  in 
America. " 

"Obed  Chute,"  repeated  Gualtier,  with  the 
nir  of  one  who  is  trying  to  fasten  something  on 
his  memory. 

"Yes;  and  he  seems  to  have  lived  in  New 
York." 


"  What  was  the  nature  of  the  connection 
which  he  had  with  the  others?" 

"I  should  conjecture  that  he  was  a  kind  of 
guide,  philosopher,  and  friend,  with  a  little  of 
the  agent  and  commission-merchant,"  rei)lied 
Hilda.  "But  it  is  impossible  to  find  out  any 
thing  in  particular  about  him  from  the  meagre 
letters  which  I  obtained.  I  found  nothing  else 
except  these  papers,  though  I  searciied  diligent- 
ly. Every  thing  is  contained  here.  1  have 
them,  and  I  intend  to  show  tiiem  to  you  without 
any  further  delay. " 

jSaying  this  Hilda  drew  some  papers  from  her 
pocket,  and  handed  them  to  Gualtier. 

On  opening  them  Gualtier  found  first  a  paper 
covered  with  cipher  writing.  It  was  the  same 
which  Hilda  had  copied,  and  the  characters  were 
familiar  to  him  from  his  former  attempt  to  de- 
cipiier  them.  The  paper  was  thick  and  coarse,  but 
Hilda  had  copied  the  characters  very  faithfully. 

The  next  paper  was  a  receipt  written  out  on  a 
small  sheet  which  was  yellow  with  age,  while  the 
ink  had  faded  into  a  pale  brown : 

"  $100,000.  Niw  Yoiuc,  May  10, 1840. 

"  Kecelved  from  O.  N.  Pomeroy  the  Hum  of  one  hun- 
dred thousaud  dollars  ill  puymeut  for  my  claim. 

"OuKi)  Chcte." 


''  n.w  Mil  ^.CT^^n^ 


THE  CKYPTOGRAM. 


55 


It  was  a  singular  document  in  every  respect ; 
but  the  mention  of  the  sum  of  money  seemed  to 
confirm  the  statement  gathered  from  the  cipher 
writing. 

The  next  document  was  a  letter : 

"Nkw  York,  A^tg^utia,  1840. 
"  Dear  Sir, — I  take  great  pleasure  in  inform- 
ing you  that  L.  C.  has  experienced  a  change, 
and  is  now  slowly  recovering.  I  assure  you  that 
no  pains  shall  be  spared  to  hasten  her  cure.  The 
best  that  New  York  can  afford  is  at  her  service. 
I  hope  soon  to  ac(]uaint  you  with  her  entire  re- 
covery.    Until  then,  believe  me, 

"  Yours  truly,        Obed  Chute. 

"  Capt.  O.  N.  PoMEEOY." 

The  next  paper  was  a  letter  written  in  a  lady's 
hand.     It  was  very  short : 

"New  York,  SfptemberW,  1840. 
"Farewell,  dearest  friend  and  more  than  broth- 
er. After  a  Icng  sickness  I  have  at  last  recovered 
through  the  u'.ercy  of  God  and  the  kindness  of 
Mr.  C'hute.  V.'e  shall  never  meet  again  on  earth  ; 
but  I  will  pray  for  your  happiness  till  my  latest 
breath.  Mary  Chetwynde." 

There  was  only  one  other.  It  was  a  letter 
also,  and  was  as  follows : 

"New  York,  OcMxtr  10,  1840. 
"Dear  Sir, — I  have  great  pleasure  in  in- 
forming you  that  your  friend  L.  C.  has  at  length 
entirely  recovered.  She  is  very  much  broken 
down,  however;  her  hair  is  quite  gray,  and  she 
looks  twenty  years  older.  She  is  deeply  peni- 
tent and  profoundly  sad.  She  is  to  leave  me 
to-morrow,  and  will  join  the  Sisters  of  Charity. 
You  will  fuel  with  me  that  this  is  best  for  herself 
and  for  all.  I  remain  yours,  very  truly, 

"Obed  Chute. 

"Capt.  0.  N.  POMKROY." 

Gunltier  read  these  letters  several  times  in 
deep  and  thoughtful  silence.  Then  he  sat  in 
profound  thought  for  some  time. 

"Well,"  said  Hilda  at  length,  with  some  im- 
patience, "what  do  you  think  of  these?" 

"What  do  you  think  ?"  asked  Gualtier. 

"  I  ?"  returned  Hilda.  "  I  will  tell  you  what 
I  think ;  and  as  I  have  brooded  over  these  for 
eight  months  now,  I  can  only  say  that  I  am  more 
confirmed  than  ever  in  my  first  impressions.  To 
nie,  then,  these  papers  seem  to  point  out  two 
great  facts — the  first  being  that  of  the  forgery; 
and  the  second  tlii\t  of  the  elopement.  Beyond 
this  I  see  something  else.  The  forgery  has  been 
arranged  by  the  payment  of  the  amount.  The 
elopement  also  has  come  to  a  miserable  tcimina- 
tion.  Lady  Chetwynde  seems  to  have  been  desert- 
ed by  her  lover,  wl.  j  left  her  perhaps  in  New  York. 
She  fell  ill,  very  ill,  and  sulfered  so  that  on  her 
recovery  she  had  grown  in  appearance  twenty 
years  older.  Broken-hearted,  she  did  not  dare 
to  go  back  to  her  friends,  but  joined  the  Sisters 
of  Charity.  She  is  no  doubt  dead  long  ago.  As 
to  this  Chute,  he  seems  to  me  perhaps  to  have 
been  a  kind  of  tool  of  the  lover,  wiio  employed 
him  probably  to  settle  his  forgery  business,  and 
also  to  take  care  of  the  uniu«|)py  woman  whom 
he  had  ruined  and  deserted.  He  wrote  these 
few  letters  to  keep  the  recreant  lover  informed 
about  her  fate.     In  the  midst  of  these  there  is 


the  last  despairing  farewell  of  the  unhappy  creat- 
ure herself  All  these  the  conscience  '-ricken 
lover  has  ( arefuUy  preserved.  In  a  iition  to 
these,  no  doubt  for  the  sake  of  easing  his  con- 
science, he  wrote  out  a  confession  of  his  sin. 
But  he  was  too  great  a  coward  to  write  it  out 
plainly,  and  therefore  wrote  it  in  cipher.  I  be- 
lieve that  he  would  have  destroyed  them  all  if 
he  had  found  time ;  but  his  accident  came  too 
(juickly  for  this,  and  he  has  left  these  papers  as 
a  legacy  to  the  discoverer." 

As  Hilda  spoke  Gualtier  gazed  at  her  with  un- 
feigned admiration. 

"  You  are  right,"  said  he.  "  Every  word  that 
you  speak  is  as  true  as  fate.  You  iiave  penetra- 
ted to  the  very  bottom  of  this  secret.  I  believe 
that  this  is  the  true  solution.  Your  genius  has 
solved  the  mystery. " 

"The  mystery,"  repeated  Hilda,  who  showed 
no  emotion  whatever  at  the  fervent  admiration 
of  Gualtier — "the  mystery  is  as  far  from  solu- 
tion as  ever." 

"  Have  you  not  solved  it?" 

"  Certainly  not.  Mine,  after  all,  are  merely 
conjectures.  Much  more  remains  to  be  done. 
In  the  first  place,  I  must  find  out  something 
about  Lady  Chetwynde.  For  months  I  have 
tried,  but  in  vain.  I  have  ventured  as  far  as  I 
dared  to  question  the  people  about  here.  Once  I 
hinted  to  Mrs.  Hart  something  about  the  elope- 
ment, and  she  turned  upon  me  with  that  in  her 
eyes  which  would  have  turned  an  ordinary  mor- 
tal into  stone.  Fortunately  for  me,  I  bore  it, 
and  survived.  But  since  that  unfortunate  (jues- 
tion  she  shims  me  more  than  ever.,  The  other 
servants  know  nothing,  or  else  they  will  reveal  no- 
thing. Nothing,  in  fact,  can  be  discovered  here. 
The  mystery  is  yet  to  be  explained,  and  the  ex- 
planation must  be  sought  elsewhere." 

"W'here?" 

"I  dont  know." 

"  Have  you  thought  of  any  thing?  You  must 
have,  or  you  would  not  have  communicated  with 
me.  There  is  some  work  which  you  wish  me  to 
do.  You  have  thought  about  it,  and  have  de- 
termined it.  What  is  it?  Is  it  to  go  to  America  ? 
Shall  I  hunt  up  Obed  Chute?  Shall  I  search 
through  tha  convents  till  I  find  that  Sister  who 
once  was  Lady  Chetwynde  ?  Tell  me.  If  you 
say  so  I  will  go." 

Hilda  mused ;  then  she  spoke,  as  though  rath- 
er to  herself  than  to  her  companion. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  have  no  plans — no  def- 
inite aim,  beyond  a  desire  to  find  out  what  it  all 
means,  and  what  there  is  in  it.  What  can  I  do? 
What  could  I  do  if  I  found  out  all?  I  really  do 
not  know.  If  General  I'omeroy  were  alive,  it 
might  be  ])ossible  to  extort  from  him  a  confession 
of  his  crimes,  and  make  them  known  to  the 
world. " 

"  If  (leneral  Pomcroy  were  alive,"  interrupt- 
ed Gualtier,  "  and  were  to  confess  all  his  crimes, 
what  good  would  that  do?" 

"What  good?"  cried  Hilda,  in  a  tone  of  far 
greater  vehemence  and  passion  than  any  which 
had  yet  escaped  her.  "What  good?  Humilia- 
tion, sorrow,  shame,  anguish,  for  his  daughter ! 
It  is  nf)t  on  his  head  that  1  wish  these  to  de- 
scend,, but  on  hers.  You  look  surprised.  You 
wonder  why  ?  I  will  not  tell  ^ou — not  now,  at 
least.  It  is  not  because  she  is  passionate  and 
disagreeable ;  that  is  a  trifle,  and  besides  slie  has 


i)nim«iy.ipi7ri^"'  I'"  ,"^v*wij.i|,!wu^ijj»«i;«i,«»wi.i!i'R|WfWP!P«»rs^ 


06 


THE  CKYPTOGRAM. 


clinnged  from  that ;  it  is  not  because  she  ever  in- 
jiiiecl  ine — she  never  injured  me  ;  she  loves  me  ; 
but" — and  Hilda's  brow  grew  dark,  atid  her  eyes 
flashed  as  she  spoke — "there  are  other  reasons, 
deeper  than  all  this — reasons  which  I  will  not 
divulge  even  to  you,  but  which  yet  are  sufficient 
to  make  me  long  and  yehrn  and  crave  for  some 
opportunity  to  bring  down  her  proud  head  into 
the  very  dust." 

"And  that  opportunity  shall  be  yours,"  cried 
Gualtier,  vehemently.  "To  do  this  it  is  only 
necessary  to  find  out  the  whole  truth.  1  will 
find  it  out.  1  will  search  over  all  England  and 
all  America  till  I  discover  all  that  you  want  to 
kuow.  General  Pomeroy  is  dead.  What  mat- 
ter ?  He  is  nothing  to  you.  But  she  lives,  and 
is  a  mark  for  your  vengeance." 

"I  have  said  more  than  I  intended  to,"  said 
Hilda,  suddenly  resuming  her  coolness.  "At 
any  rate,  I  take  you  at  your  word.  If  you  want 
money,  I  can  supply  it." 

"Money?"  said  Gualtier,  with  a  light  laugh. 
"  No,  no.  It  is  something  far  more  than  that 
which  I  want.  When  I  have  succeeded  in  my 
search  I  will  tell  you.  To  tell  it  now  would  be 
premature.     I5ut  when  shall  I  start?     Now?" 

"Oh  no,"  said  Hilda,  who  showed  no  emo- 
tion one  way  or  the  other  at  the  hint  which  be 
had  thrown  out.  "Oh  no,  do  nothing  sudden- 
ly. Wait  until  your  quarter  is  up.  Wheu  will 
it  be  out  ?" 

"  In  six  weeks.     Shall  I  wait?" 

"Yes." 

"  Well,  then,  in  six  weeks  I  will  go." 

"Very  well." 

"And  if  I  don't  succeed  I  shall  never  come 
back." 

Hilda  was  silent. 

"  Is  it  arranged,  then?"  said  Gualtier,  after  a 
time." 

"  Yes ;  and  now  I  will  take  my  music  lesson. " 

And  Hilda  walked  over  to  the  piano. 

After  this  interview  no  further  opportunity  oc- 
curred. Gualtier  came  every  day  as  before.  In 
n  fortnight  he  gave  notice  to  the  Earl  that  press- 
ing private  engagements  would  require  his  de- 
parture. He  begged  leave  to  recommend  a  friend 
of  his,  Mr.  Hilaire.  The  Earl  had  an  interview 
wilh  Gualtier,  and  courteously  expressed  his  re- 
gret at  his  departure,  asking  him  at  the  same 
time  to  write  to  .Mr.  Hilaire  and  get  him  to  come. 
This  Gualtier  promised  to  do. 

Shortly  before  the  time  of  Gualtier's  departure 
Mr.  Hilaire  arrived.  Gualtier  took  him  to  the 
Castle,  and  he  was  recognized  as  the  new  teacher. 

In  a  few  days  Gualtier  took  his  departure. 


CHAPTER  XV. 

FROM   GIRLHOOD   TO  WOMANHOOD. 

One  evening  Zillah  was  sitting  with  Lord 
Chotwynde  in  his  little  sanctum.  His  health 
had  not  been  good  of  late,  and  sometimes  at- 
tacks of  gout  were  superadded.  At  this  time 
he  was  confined  to  his  room. 

Ziliah  was  dressed  for  diimer,  and  had  come 
to  sit  with  him  until  the  second  bell  rang.  She 
had  been  with  him  con,stnntly  during  his  confine- 
ment to  his  room.  At  this  time  she  was  seated 
on  a  low  stool   near  the  fire,  which  threw  its 


glow  over  her  face,  and  lit  up  the  vast  masses 
of  her  jet-black  hair.  Neither  of  them  had  spok- 
en for  some  time,  when  Lord  (Jhetwynde,  who 
had  been  looking  steadily  at  her  for  some  min- 
utes, said,  abruptly : 

"Zillah,  I'm  sure  Guy  will  not  know  you 
when  he  comes  back." 

She  looked  up  loughingly. 

"Why,  father?  I  think  every  lineament  on 
my  face  must  be  stereotyped  on  bis  memory." 

"That  is  precisely  the  reason  why  I  say  that 
he  will  not  know  you.  1  could  not  have  im- 
agined that  three  years  could  have  so  thoroughly 
altered  any  one. " 

"It's  only  fine  feathers,"  said  Zillah,  shaking 
her  head.  "  You  must  allow  that  Mutliilde  is 
incomjjarable.  I  dften  feel  that  were  she  to 
have  the  least  idea  of  the  appearance  which  I 
presented,  when  I  first  came  here,  there  would  be 
nothing  left  for  me  but  suicide.  I  could  not  sur- 
vive her  conteinjjt.  1  was  always  fond  of  finery. 
I  have  Indian  blood  enough  for  that ;  but  when 
I  remember  my  combinations  of  colors,  it  really 
makes  me  shudder ;  and  my  hair  was  always 
streaming  over  my  shoulders  in  a  manner  more 
7iC(/li(/e  tlian  becoming." 

"1  do  Matiiikle  full  justice,"  returned  Lord 
Chetwynde.  "Your  toilette  and  coitt'ure  are 
now  irreproachable ;  but  even  her  power  litis  its 
limits,  and  she  could  scarcely  have  turned  the 
sallow,  awkward  girl  into  a  lovely  and  graceful 
woman." 

Zillah,  who  was  unused  to  flattery,  blushed 
very  red  at  this  tribute  to  her  charms,  and  an- 
swered, quickly : 

"  Wliatever  change  there  may  be  is  entirely 
due  to  Monmouthshire.  Devonshire  never  agreed 
with  me.  I  should  have  been  ill  and  delicate  to 
this  day  if  I  had  remained  there ;  and  as  to  sal- 
lowness,  I  must  plead  guilty  to  that.  I  remem- 
ber a  lemon-colored  silk  Ihad,  in  which  it  was 
impossible  to  tell  where  the  dress  ended  and  my 
neck  began.  But,  after  all,  father,  you  are  a 
very  prejudiced  judge.  Except  that  I  am  healthy 
now,  and  well  dressed,  I  think  I  am  very  much 
the  same  personally  as  I  was  three  years  ago.  In 
character,  however,  I  feel  that  I  have  altered." 

"No,"  he  replied;  "I  have  been  looking  at 
you  for  the  last  few  minutes  with  perfectly  un- 
prejudiced eyes,  trying  to  see  you  as  a  stranger 
would,  and  as  Guy  will  when  he  returns.  And 
now,"  he  added,  laughingly,  "you  shall  be  pun- 
ished for  your  audacity  in  doubting  my  powers 
of  discrimination,  by  having  a  full  inventory  giv- 
en you.  We  will  begin  with,  the  figure — about 
the  middle  height,  perhaps  a  little  under  it,  slight 
and  graceful ;  small  and  beautifidly  projiortioned 
head  ;  well  set  on  the  shoulders  ;  com])lexion  no 
longer  sallow  or  lemon-colored,  but  clear,  bright, 
transparent  olive ;  hair,  black  as  night,  and  glossy 
as—" 

But  here  he  was  inte>Tupted  by  Zillah,  who 
suddenly  flung  her  arms  about  his  neck,  and  the 
close  proximity  of  the  face  which  he  was  describ- 
ing impeded  further  utterance. 

"  Hush,  father,"  said  she  ;  "I  won't  hear  an- 
other word,  and  don't  you  dare  to  talk  about  ever 
looking  at  me  with  unprejudiced  eyes.  I  want 
you  to  love  me  without  seeing  my  faults. " 

"  But  would  you  not  rather  that  I  saw  your 
failings,  Zillah,  than  that  1  clothed  you  with  an 
ideal  perfection  ?" 


THE  CKYPTOGliAM. 


87 


"  No ;  I  don't  care  for  the  love  that  is  always  ' 
looking  out  for  faults,  and  has  a  'but'  even  at  the 
temlL'rest  moments.    That  is  not  the  love  I  give,  j 
l'erliii|is  strangers  might  not  thinii  dear  papa, 
and  you,  and  Hilda  absolutely  perfect ;  but  I  ean 
not  see  a  single  flaw,  and  I  should  hate  myself  i 
if  I  could."  ! 

I,ordt"hetwynde  kissed  her  fondly,  but  sighed 
as  he  answered  :  i 

"  My  child,  you  know  nothing  of  the  world. 
I  fear  lite  has  some  very  bitter  lessons  in  store 
for  you  before  you  will  learn  to  read  it  ai'ight,  ; 
and  form  a  just  estimate  of  the  characters  of  the 
people  among  whom  you  are  thrown. "  | 

"lint  you  surely  would  not  have  me  think  I 
people  bad  until  I  have  proved  them  to  be  so.  j 
Life  would  not  be  worth  having  if  one  must  live  j 
in  a  constant  state  of  suspicion." 

"No,  nor  would  I  have  you  think  all  whom 
you  love  to  be  perfect.  Believe  me,  my  child, 
you  will  meet  with  but  few  friends  in  the  world. 
Honor  is  an  exploded  notion,  belonging  to  a  past 
generation. " 

"  You  may  be  right,  father,  but  I  do  not  like 
the  doctrine  ;  so  I  shall  go  on  believing  in  jieople 
until  I  find  them  to  be  different  from  what  I 
tlioiiglit." 

"  I  should  say  to  yon,  do  so,  dear — believe  as 
long  as  you  can,  and  as  much  as  you  can ;  but 
tlie  danger  of  that  is  when  you  find  that  those 
whom  you  have  trusted  do  not  come  uj)  to  the 
standard  which  you  have  formed.  After  two  or 
three  disappointments  you  will  fall  into  the  op- 
posite extreme,  think  every  one  bad,  and  not  be- 
lieve in  any  thing  or  any  body." 

"  I  should  die  before  I  should  come  to  that," 
cried  Zillah,  passionately,  "if  what  you  say  is 
true,  1  had  better  not  let  myself  like  any  body." 
Then,  laughing  up  in  his  face,  she  added  :  "  By- 
the-way,  I  wonder  if  you  are  safe.  You  see  you 
have  made  me  so  skeptical  that  I  shall  begin  by 
suspecting  my  tutor.  No,  don't  speak,"  she  went 
on,  in  a  half-earnest,  half-mocking  manner,  and 
put.'ierhand  before  his  mouth.  "Thecaseisiio|)e- 
less,  as  far  as  you  are  concerned.  The  warning 
lias  come  too  late.  1  love  you  as  I  though  c  1 
should  never  love  any  one  after  dear  papa." 

Lord  Chetwynde  smiled,  and  pressed  her  fond- 
ly to  his  breast. 

The  steady  change  wliich  had  been  going  on  in 
Zillah.  in  mind  and  in  person,  was  indeed  suffi- 
cient to  justify  Lord  t'hetwynde's  remark.  Enough 
has  been  said  already  about  her  change  in  per- 
sonal appearance.  Great  as  this  was,  however, 
it  was  not  equal  to  that  more  subtle  change 
which  had  come  over  her  soul.  Her  nature  was 
intense,  vehement,  jiassionate;  but  its  develop- 
ment was  of  such  a  kind  that  she  was  now  earn- 
est where  she  was  formerly  impulsive,  and  calm 
where  she  had  been  formerly  weak.  A  ])rofound 
depth  of  feeling  already  was  made  manifest  in 
this  rich  nature,  and  the  thoughtfulnesa  of  the 
West  was  added  to  the  fine  emotional  sensibility 
of  the  East ;  forming  by  tiieir  union  a  being  of 
rare  susceptibility,  and  of  quick  yet  deep  feel- 
ing, who  .still  could  control  those  feeling.«,  and 
smother  them,  even  though  the  concealed  pas- 
sion should  consume  like  a  fire  within  her. 

Three  years  bad  passed  since  her  hasty  and 
repugnant  marriage,  and  those  years  had  been 
eventful  in  many  ways.  They  had  matured  the 
wild,  passionate,  unruly  girl  into  the  woman  full 


of  sensibility  and  passion.  They  had  also  been 
filled  with  events  upon  which  the  world  gazed  in 
awe,  which  shook  the  British  empire  to  its  cen- 
tre, and  sent  a  thrill  of  horror  to  the  heart  of 
that  emi)ire,  followed  by  a  fierce  thirst  for 
vengeance.  For  the  Indian  mutiny  had  broken 
out,  the  horrors  of  Cawnpore  had  been  enacted, 
the  stories  of  se|)oy  atrocity  had  been  told  by  ev- 
ery English  fireside,  and  the  whole  nation  had 
roused  itself  to  send  forth  armies  for  vengeance 
and  for  punishment.  Dread  stories  were  these 
for  the  (luiet  circle  at  Chetwynde  Castle;  yet 
they  had  been  spared  its  worst  pains.  (Juy  had 
been  sent  to  the  north  of  India,  and  had  not  been 
witness  of  the  scenes  of  Cawnpore.  He  had 
been  joined  with  those  soldiers  who  had  been 
summoned  together  to  march  on  Delhi,  and  he 
had  shared  in  the  danger  and  in  the  final  tri- 
umph of  that  memoralile  expedition. 

The  intensity  of  desire  and  the  agony  of  im- 
patience which  attended  his  letters  were  natural. 
Lord  Chetwynde  thought  only  of  one  thing  for 
many  months,  and  that  was  his  son's  letters.  At 
the  outbreak  of  the  mutiny,  a  dread  anxiety  had 
taken  posse.s.sion  of  him  lest  his  son  might  be  in 
danger.  At  first  the  letters  came  regularly,  giv- 
ing details  of  the  mutiny  as  he  heard  them. 
Then  there  was  a  long  Ivi'eak,  for  the  army  was 
on  the  march  to  Delhi.  Then  a  letter  came  from 
the  British  camp  before  Delhi,  which  roused 
Lord  Chetwynde  from  the  lowest  depths  of  de- 
spair to  joy  and  exultation  and  hope.  Then 
there  was  another  long  interval,  in  which  the 
Earl,  sick  with  anxiety,  began  to  anticii)ate  the 
worst,  and  was  fast  sinking  into  despondency, 
until,  at  last,  a  letter  came,  which  rai.sed  him  up 
in  an  instant  to  the  higliest  pitch  of  exultation 
and  triumpli.  Delhi  was  taken.  Guy  had  dis- 
tinguished himself,  and  was  honorably  mentioned 
in  the  dispatches.  He  had  been  among  the  first 
to  scale  the  walls  and  penetrate  into  the  be- 
leaguered city.  All  had  fallen  into  their  hands. 
The  great  danger  which  had  impended  had  been 
dissipated,  and  vengeance  had  been  dealt  out  to 
those  whose  hands  were  red  with  English  blood. 
Guy's  letter,  from  beginning  to  end,  was  one  long 
note  of  triumph.  Its  eiitliusiastic  tone,  coming, 
as  it  did,  after  a  long  period  of  anxiety,  com- 
pletely overcame  the  Earl.  Though  naturally 
the  least  demonstrative  of  men,  he  was  now 
overwhelmed  by  the  fidl  tide  of  his  emotions. 
He  burst  into  tears,  and  wept  for  some  time  tears 
of  joy.  Then  he  rose,  and  walking  over  to  Zil- 
lah, he  kissed  her,  and  laid  his  hand  solemnly 
ui)on  her  head. 

"My  daughter,"  said  he,  "thank  God  that 
your  huslianil  is  preserved  to  you  through  the 
perils  of  war,  and  that  he  is  saved  to  you,  and 
will  come  to  you  in  safety  and  in  honor." 

The  Earl's  words  sank  deeply  into  Zillah's 
heart..  She  said  nothing,  but  bowed  her  head  in 
silence. 

Living,  as  she  did,  where  Guy's  letters  formed 
the  chief  delight  of  him  whom  she  loved  as  a  fa- 
ther, it  would  have  been  hard  indeed  for  a  gen- 
erous nature  like  hers  to  refrain  from  sharing  his 
feelings.  Sympathy  with  his  anxiety  and  his 
joy  was  natural,  nay,  inevitable.  In  his  sorrow 
she  was  forced  to  console  him  by  pointing  ont 
all  that  might  be  considered  as  bright  in  his  pros- 
pects ;  in  his  joy  she  was  forced  to  rejoice  with 
I  him,  und  listen  to  his  descriptions  of  Guy's  ex- 


r)8 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


,  '11 


ploits,  as  his  imajrinatinn  enlarged  upon  the  more 
meagre  facts  stated  in  the  letters.  This  year  of 
anxiety  and  of  triumph,  therefore,  compelled  her 
to  think  very  much  about  Guy,  and,  whatever 
her  feelings  were,  it  certainly  exulted  him  to  a 
prominent  place  in  her  thoughts' 

And  so  it  happened  that,  as  month  succeeded 
to  month,  she  found  herself  more  and  more  com- 
pelled to  identify  herself  with  the  Enrl,  to  talk  to 
him  about  the  idol  of  his  heart,  to  share  his  anx- 
iety and  his  joj',  while  all  that  anxiety  and  all 
that  joy  referred  exclusively  to  the  man  who 
was  her  husband,  but  whom,  as  a  hutbaud,  she 
had  once  abhorred. 


m 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

THE  AMERICAN    EXPEDITION. 

AnoiiT  three  years  had  passed  away  since 
Zillnh  had  first  conic  to  ('hetwynde,  and  the  life 
which  she  had  lived  there  had  gradually  come  to 
be  grateful  and  pleasant  and  hapjiy.  Mr.  Ililaire 
was  attentive  to  his  duty  and  devoted  to  his  pu- 
pil, and  Zillah  applied  herself  assiduously  to  her 
music  and  drawing.  At  the  end  of  a  year  Mr. 
Hilairc  waited  upon  the  Earl  with  a  request  to 
withdraw,  as  he  wanted  to  go  to  the  Continent. 
He  informed  the  Enrl,  however,  that  Mr.  Gual- 
tier  was  coming  back,  and  would  like  to  get  his 
old  situation,  if  possible.  The  Karl  consented  to 
take  back  the  old  teacher;  and  so,  in  a  few 
months  more,  after  an  absence  of  about  a  year 
and  a  half,  (Jualtier  resumed  his  duties  at  Chet- 
wynde  Castle,  vice  Mr.  Ililaire,  resigned. 

On  his  first  visit  after  his  return  Hilda's  face 
expressed  an  eagerness  of  curiosity  which  even 
her  fine  self-control  could  not  conceal.  No  one 
noticed  it,  however,  but  Gualtier,  and  he  looked 
at  her  with  an  earnest  expression  that  might 
mean  any  thing  or  nothing.  It  might  tell  of 
success  or  failure ;  and  so  Hilda  was  left  to  con- 
jecture. There  was  no  chance  of  a  quiet  con- 
versation, and  she  bad  either  to  wait  as  before, 
perhaps  for  months,  until  she  could  see  him 
alone,  or  else  throw  away  her  scruples  and  ar- 
range a  meeting.  Hilda  was  not  long  in  coming 
to  a  conclusion.  On  Gualtier's  second  visit  she 
slipped  a  piece  of  pa()er  into  his  nand,  on  which 
he  read,  after  he  had  left,  the  following : 

"  /  will  be  in  the  iVest  Avenue,  near  the  Lake, 
this  afternoon  at  three  o'clock." 

That  afternoon  she  made  some  excuse  and 
went  out,  as  she  said  to  Zillah,  for  a  walk  through 
the  Park.  As  this  was  a  frequent  thing  with  her, 
it  excited  no  comment.  The  West  Avenue  led 
from  the  door  through  the  Park,  and  finally,  aft- 
er tt  long  detour,  ended  at  the  main  gate.  At 
its  farthest  point  there  was  a  lake,  surrounded 
by  a  dense  growth  of  Scotch  larch-trees,  which 
formed  a  very  good  place  for  such  a  tryst — al- 
though, for  that  matter,  in  so  quiet  a  place  as 
Chetwynde  Park,  they  might  have  met  on  the 
main  avenue  without  any  fear  of  being  noticed. 
Here,  then,  at  three  o'clock,  Hilda  went,  and  on 
reaching  the  spot  found  Gualtier  waiting  for  her. 

She  walked  under  the  shadow  of  the  trees  be- 
fore she  said  a  word. 

"  You  are  punctual,"  said  she  at  last. 

"  I  have  been  here  ever  since  noon." 

"  You  did  not  go  out,  then  'f" 


"  No,  I  staid  here  for  you." 

His  tone  expressed  the  deepest  devotion,  and 
his  eyes,  as  they  rested  on  her  for  a  moment, 
had  the  same  expression. 

llilila  looked  at  him  benignautly  and  encour- 
agingly. 

"You  have  been  gone  long,  and  I  dare  say 
you  have  been  gone  far,"  she  said.  "It  is  this 
which  I  want  to  hear  about.  Have  you  found 
out  any  thing,  and  what  have  you  found  out  ?" 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  gone  long,"  said  Gualtier, 
"and  have  been  faraway;  but  all  the  time  1  have 
done  nothing  else  than  seek  after  what  you  wish 
to  know.  Whether  I  have  discovered  any  thing 
of  any  value  will  be  for  you  to  judge.  I  can 
only  tell  you  of  the  result.  At  any  rate  yon  will 
see  that  I  have  not  spared  mvself  for  your  sake." 

"What  have  you  done?'  asked  Ililda,  who 
saw  that  Gualtier's  devotion  was  irrepressible, 
and  would  find  vent  in  words  if  she  did  not  re- 
strain him.     "  1  am  eager  to  hear." 

Gualtier  dropped  his  eyes,  and  began  to  speak 
in  a  cool  business  tone. 

"  I  will  tell  you  every  thing,  then.  Miss  KriefF," 
said  he,  "  from  the  beginning.  When  1  left  here 
I  went  first  to  London,  for  the  sake  of  making 
in(iuiries  about  the  elopement.  I  hunted  up  all 
whom  I  could  find  whose  memories  embraced 
the  last  twenty  years,  so  as  to  see  if  they  could 
throw  any  light  on  this  mystery.  One  or  two 
had  some  faint  recollection  of  the  affair,  but  no- 
thing of  any  conse(iuence.  At  length  I  found 
out  an  old  sporting  character  who  jiromised  at 
first  to  be  what  I  wished.  He  remembered 
Lady  Chetwynde,  described  her  beauty,  and  said 
that  she  was  left  to  herself  very  much  by  her 
husband.  He  remembered  well  the  excitement 
tliat  was  caused  by  her  (light.  He  remembcreil 
the  name  of  the  man  with  whom  she  had  fled. 
It  was  liedfitld  Li/ltoun." 

^' Redjield  Lytt-xm!"  repeated  Ililda,  with  a 
peculiar  expressio 

' '  Yes ;  but  he  t  id  that,  for  his  part,  he  had 
good  reason  for  believing  that  it  was  an  assumed 
name.  The  man  who  bore  the  name  had  figured 
for  a  time  in  sporting  circles,  but  after  ttiis  event 
it  was  generally  stated  that  it  was  not  his  true 
name.  I  asked  whether  any  one  knew  his  true 
name.  He  said  some  people  hod  stated  it,  but 
he  could  Witt  tell.  I  asked  what  was  the  name. 
He  said  Pomeroy." 

As  Gualtier  said  this  he  raised  his  eyes,  and 
those  small  gray  orbs  seemed  to. burn  and  flash 
with  triumph  as  they  encountered  the  gaze  of 
Hilda.  She  said  not  a  word,  but  held  out  her 
hand.  Gualtier  tremblingly  took  it,  and  pressed 
it  to  his  thin  lips. 

"This  was  all  that  I  could  discover.  It  was 
vague  ;  it  was  only  partially  satisfactory ;  but  it 
was  all.  I  soon  perceived  that  it  was  only  a 
waste  of  time  to  stay  in  London ;  and  after  think- 
ing of  many  plans,  I  finally  determined  to  visit 
the  family  of  Lady  Chetwjmde  herself.  Of 
course  such  an  undertaking  had  to  be  carried 
out  very  cautiously.  I  found  out  where  the  fam- 
ily lived,  and  went  there.  On  arriving  I  went  to 
the  Hall,  and  offered  myself  as  music-teacher.  It 
was  in  an  out-of-the-way  place,  and  Sir  Henry 
Furlong,  Lady  Chetwynde's  brother,  happened 
to  have  two  or  three  daughters  who  were  study- 
ing imder  a  governess.  When  I  showed  him  a 
certificate  which  the  Earl  here  was  kind  enough  to 


with  a 


yos,  and 

iiid  Hash 

gaze  of 

out  her 

pressed 

It  was 
;  but  it 
1  only  a 
er  think- 
1  to  visit 
If.  Of 
!  carried 
the  fam- 
:  went  to 
cher.  It 
r  Henry 
appened 
|i-e  study- 
bd  him  a 
Inough  to 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


SB 


t 


TOP  ARE  PUNCTUAL,  SAID  SHE  AT  LAST. 


give  me,  he  was  very  much  impressed  by  it.  He 
asked  me  all  about  the  Earl  and  Chetwynde, 
and  appeared  to  be  delighted  to  hear  about  these 
things.  My  stars  were  certainly  lucky.  lie  en- 
gaged me  at  once,  and  so  I  had  constant  access 
to  the  place. 

"I  had  to  work  cautiously,  of  course.     My 
idea  was  to  get  hold  of  some  of  the  domestics. 


There  was  an  old  follow  there,  a  kind  of  butler, 
whom  I  propitiated,  and  gradually  drew  into 
conversations  about  the  family.  My  footing  in 
the  house  inspired  confidence  in  him,  and  he 
gradually  became  communicative.  He  was  an 
old  gossip,  in  his  dotage,  and  he  knew  all  about 
the  family,  and  remembered  when  Lady  Chet- 
wynde was  born.     He  at  first  avoided  any  allu- 


*......•* 


'"J^W" 


()0 


THK  CRYPTOGRAM. 


III 


.it 


If 


I 


mm- 
Jb's 


sion  to  her,  but  I  told  him  long  stories  nhoiit  the  j 
Karl,  and  won  upon  his  aympathics  so  tliat  lie  told  i 
me  at  lust  nil  that  the  family  knew  about  Lady 
Chetwyndo. 

"  His  story  was  this  :  Lord  C'hctwynde  was 
busy  in  politics,  and  left  his  wife  very  much  to 
herself.  A  coolness  had  sprung  up  between  them, 
which  increased  every  day.  Lady  ( 'lietwynde  was 
vain,  and  giddy,  and  weak.  The  Hedfield  Lyt- 
toun  of  whom  I  had  heard  in  London  was  much 
at  her  house,  though  her  husband  knew  nothing 
about  it.  I'eople  were  talking  about  them  every 
where,  and  ho  only  was  in  the  dark.  At  last  they 
ran  away,  It  was  known  that  they  had  fled  to 
America.  That  is  the  last  that  was  ever  heard 
of  her.  She  vanished  out  of  sight,  and  her  para- 
mour also.  Not  one  word  has  ever  been  Jieard 
about  either  of  them  since.  From  which  I  con- 
jecture that  liedfield  Lyttoun,  when  he  had  be- 
come tired  of  his  victim,  threw  her  oft",  and  came 
back  to  resume  his  proper  name,  to  lead  a  life  of 
honor,  and  to  die  in  the  odor  of  sanctity.  What 
do  you  think  of  my  idea  ?" 

"It  seems  just,"  said  Hilda,  thoughtfully. 

"In  the  three  months  which  I  spent  there  I 
found  out  all  that  the  family  could  tell ;  but  still 
I  was  far  enough  away  from  the  object  of  my 
search.  I  only  had  conjectures,  I  wanted  cer- 
tainty. I  thought  it  all  over ;  ap'1.  at  length, 
saw  that  the  only  thing  left  to  do  was  to  go  to 
America,  and  try  to  get  upon  their  tracks.  It 
was  a  desperate  undertaking ;  America  changes 
so  chat  traces  of  fugitives  are  very  quickly  obliter- 
ated ;  and  who  could  detect  or  discover  any  after 
a  lapse  of  nearly  twenty  years?  Still,  I  determ- 
ined to  go.  There  seemed  to  be  a  slight  chance 
that  I  might  find  this  Obed  Chute,  who  figures 
in  the  corres|)ondence.  There  was  also  a  chance 
of  tracing  Lady  Chetwynde  among  the  records 
of  the  Sisters  of  Charity.  Besides,  there  was  the 
chapter  of  accidents,  in  which  unexpected  things 
often  turn  up.  So  I  went  to  America.  My  first 
search  was  after  Obed  Chute.  To  my  amaze- 
ment, I  found  him  at  once.  He  is  one  of  the 
foremost  bankers  of  New  York,  and  is  well 
known  all  over  the  city.  I  waited  on  him  with- 
out delay.  I  had  documents  and  certificates 
which  I  presented  to  him.  Among  others,  I  had 
written  out  a  very  good  letter  from  Sir  Henry 
Furlong,  commissioning  me  to  find  out  about  his 
beloved  sister,  and  another  from  General  Pome- 
roy,  to  the  ett'ect  that  I  was  his  friend — " 

"Thatwasforgery,"interrupted  Hilda,  sharply. 

Gualtier  bowed  with  a  deprecatory  air,  and 
hung  his  head  in  deep  abasement, 

"Go  on," said  she. 

"You  are  too  harsh,"  said  he,  in  a  pleading 
voice.     "  It  was  all  for  your  sake — " 

"  Go  on,"  she  repeated. 

"  Well,  with  these  I  went  to  see  Obed  Chute. 
He  was  a  tall,  broad-shouldered,  square-headed 
man,  with  iron-gray  hair,  and  a  face— well,  it 
was  one  of  those  faces  that  make  you  feel  that 
the  owner  can  do  any  thing  he  chooses.  On  en- 
tering his  private  oflHce  I  introduced  myself,  and 
began  a  long  explanation.  He  internipted  me 
by  shaking  hands  with  me  vehemently,  and  push- 
mg  me  into  a  chair.  I  sat  down,  and  went  on 
with  my  explanation.  I  told  him  that  I  had 
come  out  as  representative  of  the  Furlong  fami- 
ly, and  the  friend  of  General  Pomeroy,  now  dead. 
I  told  him  that  there  were  several  thitigs  which  I 


wished  to  find  out.  First,  to  troro  Lady  Chet- 
wynde, and  find  out  wiuil  had  become  of  her, 
and  bring  her  back  to  her  friends,  if  she  were 
alive ;  secondly,  to  clear  up  certain  charges  rela- 
tive to  a  forgery  ;  and,  finally,  to  find  out  about 
the  fate  of  Kedfield  Lyttoiui. 

"Mr.  Obed  Chute  at  first  was  civil  enough, 
after  his  rough  way  ;  but,  as  I  spoke,  he  looked 
at  me  earnestly,  eying  me  from  head  to  foot 
with  sharp  scrutiny.  He  did  not  seem  to  believe 
my  story. 

"  '  Well,'  said  he,  when  I  had  ended,  '  is  that 
all?' 

"'Yes,' said  L 

"  '  So  you  want  to  find  out  about  Lady  Chet- 
wynde, and  the  forgerv,  and  Hedfield  Lyttoun?' 

"'Yes.' 

"  '  And  General  Pomeroy  told  you  to  apply  to 
me?' 

"  '  Yes.  On  his  dying  bed,'  said  I,  solemnly, 
'  his  last  words  were  :  "  Go  to  Obed  Chute,  and 
tell  him  to  explain  all."' 

"  '  To  explain  all !'  repeated  Obed  Chute. 

"  '  Yes, '  said  I.  '  "  The  confession,"  said  the 
General,  "can  not  be  made  by  me.  He  must 
make  it,"' 

"  '  The  confession !'  he  rejieated. 

"  'Yes.  And  1  suppose  that  you  will  not  be 
unwilling  to  grant  a  dying  man's  recpiest.' 

"Obed  Chute  said  nothing  for  some  time,  but 
sat  staring  at  me,  evidently  engaged  in  profound 
thought.  At  any  rate,  he  saw  through  and 
through  me. 

"'Young  man,'  said  he  nt  last,  'where  are 
you  IvidgingV 

"  '  At  the  Astor  House,'  said  I,  in  some  sur- 
prise. 

"  'Well,  then,  go  back  to  the  Astor  House, 
pack  up  your  trunk,  j)ay  your  bill,  take  your  fare 
in  the  first  steamer,  and  go  right  straight  back 
home.  When  you  get  tliere,  give  my  compli- 
ments to  Sir  Henry  Furlong,  and  tell  him  if  he 
wants  his  sister  he  had  better  hunt  her  up  him- 
self. As  to  that  affecting  message  which  you 
have  brought  from  General  Pomeroy,  I  can  only 
say,  that,  as  he  evidently  did  not  explain  this  busi- 
ness to  you,  I  certainly  will  not.  I  was  only  his 
agent.  Finally,  if  you  want  to  find  Kedfield 
Lyttoun,  you  may  march  straight  out  of  that 
door,  and  look  about  you  till  you  find  him.' 

"Saying  this,  he  rose,  opened  the  door,  and, 
with  a  savage  frown,  which  forbade  remonstrance, 
motioned  me  out. 

' '  I  went  out.  I'here  was  evidently  no  hope  of 
doing  any  thing  with  Obed  Chute." 

"  Then  you  failed,"  said  Hilda,  in  deep  disap- 
pointment. 

"  Failed  ?  No.  Do  you  not  see  how  the  reti- 
cence of  this  Obed  Chute  confirms  all  our  sus- 
picions ?  But  wait  till  you  hear  all,  and  I  will 
tell  you  my  conclusions.  You  will  then  see  wheth- 
er I  have  discovered  any  thing  definite  or  not. 

"  I  confess  I  was  much  discouraged  at  first  at 
my  reception  by  Obed  Chute.  I  expected  every 
thing  from  this  interview,  and  his  brutality  baf- 
fled me.  I  did  not  venture  back  there  again,  of 
course.  I  thought  of  trying  other  things,  and 
went  diligently  around  among  the  convents  and 
religions  orders,  to  see  if  I  could  find  out  any 
thing  about  the  fate  of  Lady  (Chetwynde.  My 
letters  of  introduction  from  Sir  H.  Furlong  and 
from  Lord  Chetwynde  led  these  simple-minded 


THE  CRYl»TOGRAM. 


61 


that 


)  liope  of 


the  reti- 
our  SU8- 
iiJ  I  will 
ee  wheth- 
er not. 
nt  first  at 
ted  every 
iility  baf- 
ngain.  of 
uigs,  and 
rents  and 
out  anv 
ide.     My 
'long  aod 
ii-minded 


WITH 


SAVAGK    FKOWN    HB   MUTIUNED 


people  to  receive  me  with  confidence.  They 
readily  seconded  my  efforts,  and  opened  their 
records  to  me.  For  some  time  my  search  was 
ill  vain  ;  hut,  at  last,  I  found  what  I  wanted. 
One  of  the  societies  of  the  Sisters  of  Charity  had 
the  name  of  Sister  Ursula,  who  joined  them  in 
the  year  1 840.  She  was  Lady  Chetwynde.  She 
lived  with  them  eight  years,  and  then  disappeared. 
Why  she  had  left,  or  where  she  had  gone,  whs 
equally  unknown.  She  had  disappeared,  and 
that  was  the  end  of  her.  After  this  I  came 
home." 

"And  you  have  found  out  nothing  more?" 
said  Hilda,  in  deep  disappointment. 

"Nothing,"  said  Gualtier,  dejectedly;  "but 
are  you  not  hasty  in  despising  what  I  have  found 
out?    Is  not  this  something?" 

"  I  do  not  know  that  you  have  discovered  any 
thing  but  what  I  knew  before,"  said  Hilda, 
coldly.  "You  have  made  some  conjectures — 
that  is  all." 

"Conjectures! — no,  conclusions  from  addi- 
tional facts,"  said  Gualtier,  eagerly.  "What 
we  suspected  is  now,  at  least,  more  certain.  The 
very  brutality  of  that  beast,  Obed  Chute,  proves 
this.  Let  me  tell  you  the  conclusions  that  I 
draw  from  this : 

"First,  General  Pomeroy,  under  an  assumed 
name,  that  of  Hedfield  Lyttoun,  gained  Lady 
Chetwynde's  love,  and  ran  away  with  her  to 
America. 

"Secondly,  he  forged  a  hundred  thousand  dol- 
lars, which  forgery  he  hushed  up  through  this 
Obed  Chute,  paying  him,  no  doubt,  a  large  sum 
for  hush-money. 

"Thirdly,  he  deserted  Lady  Chetwynde  when 
he  was  tired  of  her,  and  left  her  in  the  hands  of 


Obed  Chute.  She  was  ill,  and 
finally,  on  her  recovery,  joined 
the  .sisters  of  ( 'harity. 

"Fourthly,  after  eight  yours 
she  ran  away  ^  ])erhaps  to  fall 
i.ito  evil  courses  and  die  in  in- 
fumy. 

"And  lastly,  all  this  must  be 
true,  or  else  Obed  (Jhute  would 
not  have  been  so  close,  and  would 
not  have  fired  up  so  at  the  very 
suggestion  of  an  exjilanation.  If 
it  were  not  true,  why  slioidd  he  not 
explain  ?  Hut  if  it  be  true,  then 
there  is  every  reason  why  ho 
J^  should  not  explain." 

^  A  long  silence  followed.    Hilda 

was  evidently  deeply  disa|>point- 
ed.  From  what  Gualtier  had 
said  at  the  beginning  of  the  in- 
terview, she  had  expected  to  hear 
something  more  definite.  It 
seemed  to  her  as  though  nil  his 
trouble  hud  resulted  in  nothing. 
Still,  she  was  not  one  to  give  way 
to  disappoiutment,  and  she  had 
too  much  good  sense  to  show  her- 
self either  ungrateful  or  ungra- 
cious. 

"Your  conclusions  are,  no 
doubt,  correct,"  said  she  at  last, 
in  a  pleasanter  tone  than  she  had 
yet  assumed ;  "but  they  are  only 
inferences,  and  cun  not  be  made 
use  of — in  the  practical  way  in 
which  I  hoped  they  would  be.  We  are  still  in 
the  attitude  of  inquirers,  you  see.  The  secret 
which  we  hold  is  of  such  a  character  that  we  have 
to  keep  it  to  ourselves  until  it  be  confirmed." 

Gualtier's  face  lighted  up  with  pleasure  as  Hil- 
da thus  identified  him  with  herself,  and  classed 
him  with  her  as  the  sharer  of  the  secret. 

"Any  thing,"  said  he,  eagerly — "any  thing 
that  I  can  do,  I  will  do.     I  hope  you  know  that 
you  have  only  to  say  the  word — " 
Hilda  waved  her  hand. 

"  I  trust  you,"  said  she.  "The  time  will  come 
when  you  will  have  something  to  do.  But  just 
now  I  must  wnit,  and  attend  upon  circumstances. 
There  are  many  things  in  my  mind  which  I  will 
not  tell  you — that  is  to  say,  not  yet.  But  when 
the  time  comes,  I  promise  to  tell  you.  You 
may  be  interested  in  my  plans — or  you  may  not. 
I  will  suppose  that  you  are." 

"Can  you  doubt  it.  Miss  Kriefl"?" 
"No,  I  do  not  doubt  it.  and  I  promise  you 
my  confidence  when  any  thing  further  arises." 

"  Cun  I  be  of  no  assistance  now — in  advising, 
or  in  counseling  ?"  asked  Gualtier,  in  a  hesita- 
ting voice. 

"  No — whatever  half-formed  plans  I  may  have 
relate  to  people  and  to  things  which  are  alto- 
gether outside  of  your  sphere,  and  so  you  coidd 
do  nothing  in  the  way  of  counseling  or  advis- 
ing." 

"At  least,  tell  me  this  much — must  I  look 
upon  all  my  labor  as  wasted  utterly?  Will  you 
at  least  accept  it,  even  if  it  is  useless,  as  an  offer- 
ing to  you  ?" 

(jualtier's  pale  sallow  face  grew  paler  and 
more  sallow  us  he  usked  this ;  his  small  gray 
eyes  twinkled  with  a  feverish  light  as  he  turned 


^:. 


r  t 


I- 


G2- 

them  ntixioiislynpon  llililn.  Ilildn,  for  her  part, 
roKiu'iltMl  him  with  her  usual  cahnueMs. 

"Accept  it?"  Hiiid  Hhe.  "(,'ortainly,  right 
Kimily  iiiitl  griitefully.  Mv  friend,  if  I  wan  diH- 
iippoi'iited  at  the  reHuh,  du  not  NUppoKC  that  I 
fail  lo  appreciate  the  hibor.  Voii  liavo  shown 
rare  ])ersevorttnco  and  ){''Cftt  acuteness.  The 
next  time  you  will  Hucceed." 

Thio  approval  of  Iuh  labors,  slixht  as  it  wait, 
and  spoken  as  it  was,  with  the  air  of  a  i|ueen, 
was  eagerly  and  thankfully  accepted  by  (Jualtier. 
Ho  hungered  aftf^r  her  ai)proval,  and  in  his  hun- 
ger he  was  delighted  oven  with  crumbs. 


TIIK  (;UYPT(HJKAM. 


CIIAPTKR  XVII. 

A    F  R  K  8  H    in  8  C  O  V  E  R  Y . 

SoMK  time  passed  away,  and  Hilda  had  no 
more  interviews  with  (iualtier.  The  latter  set- 
tled down  into  a  patient,  painstaking  music- 
teacher  once  more,  who  seemed  not  to  have  an 
idea  beyond  his  art.  Hilda  held  herself  aloof; 
and,  even  when  she  might  have  exchanged  a  few 
conHdetitial  words,  she  did  not  choose  to  do  so. 
And  (iualtier  wus  content,  and  quiet,  and  pa- 
tient. 

Nearly  eighteen  months  had  passed  away  since 
Zillah's  visit  to  Pomeroy  Court,  and  she  began  to 
be  anxious  to  pay  another  visit.  She  had  been 
agitating  the  subject  for  some  time ;  but  it  had 
been  ])ostponed  from  time  to  time,  for  various 
reasons,  tlie  cliief  one  being  the  ill  health  of  the 
Karl.  At  length,  however,  his  health  improved 
somewhat,  and  Zillah  determined  to  take  ad- 
vantage of  this  to  go. 

This  time,  the  sight  of  the  Court  did  not  pro- 
duce so  strong  an  effect  as  before.  She  did  not 
feel  like  staying  alone,  but  preferred  having 
Hilda  with  her,  and  8])oke  freely  about  the  past. 
They  wandered  about  the  rooms,  looked  over  all 
the  well-remembered  places,  rode  or  strolled 
through  the  grounds,  and  found,  at  every  step, 
inside  of  the  Court,  and  outside  idso,  something 
which  called  up  a  whole  world  of  associations. 

Wandering  thus  about  the  Court,  from  one 
room  to  another,  it  was  natural  that  Zillah 
should  go  often  to  the  library,  where  her  father 
formerly  passed  the  greater  part  of  his  time. 
Here  they  chiefly  staid,  and  looked  over  the 
books  and  pictures. 

One  day  the  conversation  turned  toward  the 
(Tesk,  and  Zillah  casually  remarked  that  her  fa- 
ther used  to  keep  this  place  so  sacred  from  her 
intrusion  that  she  had  acquired  a  kind  of  awe  of 
it,  which  she  had  not  yet  <iuite  overcome.  This 
led  Hilda  to  propose,  laughingly,  that  she  should 
explore  it  now,  on  the  spot;  and,  taking  the 
keys,  she  opened  it,  and  turned  over  some  of  the 
papers.  At  length  she  opened  a  drawer,  and 
drew  out  a  miniature.  Zillah  snatched  it  from 
her,  and,  looking  at  it  for  a  few  moments,  burst 
into  tears. 

"  It's  my  mother,"  she  cried,  amidst  her  sobs ; 
"my  mother !     Oh,  my  mother !" 

Hilda  said  nothing. 

"  He  showed  it  to  me  once,  when  I  was  a  lit- 
tle child,  and  I  often  have  wondered,  in  a  vague 
way,  what  became  of  it.  I  never  thought  of 
looking  here." 

"  You  may  find  other  things  here,  also,  if  you 


look,"  said  Hihla,  gently.    "  No  doubt  your  papa 
kept  here  all  his  most  precious  things." 

The  idea  excited  Zillah.  She  covered  the  por- 
trait with  kisses,  put  it  in  her  pocket,  and  then 
sat  down  to  explore  the  desk. 

There  were  bundles  of  papers  there,  lying  on 
the  bottom  of  the  desk,  all  neatly  wrapped  up 
and  labeled  in  a  most  business-like  nuiniier. 
Outside  there  was  a  number  of  drawers,  all  of 
which  were  tilled  with  impcrs.  These  were  all 
wrapiK^d  in  bundles,  and  were  labeled,  so  ns  to 
show  at  the  tirst  glance  that  they  referred  tu  the 
business  of  the  estate.  Some  were  mortgages, 
others  receipts,  others  letters,  others  returned 
checks  and  drafts.  Nothing  among  these  had 
any  interest  for  Zillah. 

Inside  the  desk  there  were  some  drawers,  which' 
Zillah  opened.  Once  on  the  search,  she  ke]it  it 
up  most  vigorously.  The  discovery  of  her  mo- 
ther's miniature  led  her  to  sup]>ose  that  some- 
thing else  of  o<pml  value  might  be  found  here 
somewhere.  JJut,  after  a  long  search,  nothing 
whatever  was  found.  The  search,  lioweve'-,  only 
became  the  more  exciting,  and  the  more  she  was 
baffled  the  more  eager  did  she  become  to  follow 
it  out  to  the  end.  While  she  was  investigating 
in  this  way,  Hilda  stood  by  her,  looking  on  with 
the  air  of  a  sympathizing  friend  and  interested 
spectator.  Sometimes  slie  antii'ipated  Zillah  in 
opening  drawers  which  lay  before  their  eyes,  and 
in  seizing  and  examining  the  rollsof  pnijcrs  with 
which  each  drawer  was  filled.  The  search  was 
conducted  by  both,  in  fact,  but  Zillah  seemed  to 
take  the  lead. 

"  There's  nothing  more,"  said  Hilda  at  last,  as 
Zillah  opened  the  last  drawer,  and  found  only 
some  old  business  letters.  "  Yon  have  exam- 
ined all,  you  have  found  nothing.  At  any  rate, 
the  search  has  given  you  the  miniature  ;  and,  be- 
sides, it  has  dispelled  that  awe  that  you  spoke 
of." 

"But,  dear  Hilda,  there  ought  to  be  some- 
thing," said  Zillah.  "  I  hoped  for  something 
more.  I  had  an  idea  that  I  might  find  some- 
thing— I  don't  know  what — something  which  I 
could  keep  for  the  rest  of  my  life." 

"  Is  not  the  miniature  enough,  dearest?"  said 
Hilda,  in  affectionate  tones.  "  What  more  could 
you  wish  for  ?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  prize  it  most  highly ;  but, 
still.  I  feel  disappointed." 

"  There  is  no  more  chance,"  said  Hilda. 

"  No;  I  have  examined  every  drawer." 

"  You  can  not  expect  any  thing  more,  so  let  us 
go  away — unless,"  she  added,  "you  expect  to 
find  some  mysterious  secret  drawer  somewhere, 
and  I  fancy  there  is  hardly  any  room  here  for 
any  thing  of  that  kind." 

"A  secret  drawer!"  repeated  Zillah,  with  visir 
ble  excitement.  "What  an  idea!  But  could 
there  be  one?  Is  there  any  place  for  one?  I 
don't  see  any  place.  There  is  the  open  place 
where  the  books  are  kept,  and,  on  each  side,  a 
row  of  drawers.  No ;  there  are  no  secret  draw- 
ers here.     But  see — what  is  this?" 

As  Zillah  said  this  she  reached  out  her  hand 
toward  the  lower  part  of  the  place  where  the 
books  were  kept.  A  narrow  piece  of  wood  pro- 
jected there  beyond  the  level  face  of  the  back  of 
the  desk.  On  this  piece  of  wood  there  was  a, 
brass  catch,  which  seemed  intended  to  be  fasten- 
ed ;  but  now,  on  account  of  the  projection  of  the 


Mi  Mft 


THE  rUYPTOGUAM. 


63 


pieco,  it  wan  not  fastened.     Zillah  inHtantly  piiU- 
ud  thu  wood,  and  it  cnnio  out. 

It  HUH  a  uliallow  drawer,  not  more  tlian  lialf 
an  incli  in  depth,  and  the  eatcii  wan  tlie  nieanx 
by  which  it  waH  closed.  A  hit  of  l>raHH,  tluit 
looked  like  an  ornamental  Htiid,  was,  in  reality, 
a  spriii({,  Ity  preHHinfj  which  the  drawer  Hpraiii; 
open.  Itnt  when  Zillah  looked  there  the  drawer 
was  already  open,  and,  as  she  pidled  it  out,  hIio 
saw  it  all. 

Ah  xhe  pulled  it  out  her  hand  trembled,  and 
her  heart  beat  fast.  A  strnuKe  and  inexplica- 
ble feolinft  tilled  her  mind — a  kind  of  antici]ia- 
tion  of  calamity — a  mysterious  foreboding;  of 
evil — which  spread  a  strange  terror  through  her. 
But  her  excitement  was  strong,  and  was  not  now 
to  be  quelled  ;  and  it  woidd  have  needed  some- 
thing far  more  powerful  than  this  vague  fear  to 
stop  her  in  the  search  into  the  mystery  of  the 
desk. 

When  men  do  any  thing  that  is  destined  to 
affect  them  seriously,  for  good  or  evil,  it  often 
happens  that  at  the  time  of  the  action  a  certain 
nmiccountable  premoiution  arises  in  the  mind. 
This  is  chiefly  the  case  when  the  act  is  to  bo  the 
cause  of  sorrow.  Like  the  wizard  with  I^ochiel, 
some  dark  phantom  arises  before  the  mind,  and 
warns  of  the  evil  to  come.  So  it  was  in  the  pres- 
ent case.  The  pulling  out  of  that  drawer  was  an 
eventful  in  -lent  in  the  life  of  Zillah.  It  was  a 
crisis  ♦Vaught  with  future  sorrow  and  evil  and 
suffer.  :g.  There  was  something  of  all  this  in 
'her  mind  at  that  moment ;  and,  as  she  pulled  it 
out,  and  as  it  lay  before  her,  a  shudder  passed 
through  her,  and  she  turned  her  face  away. 

"Oh,  Hilda,  Hilda!"  she  murmured.  "I'm 
afraid—" 

"Afraid  of  what?"  nsked  Hilda.  "What's 
the  matter?  Here  is  ^ discovery,  certainly.  This 
secret  drawer  coidd  never  have  been  suspected. 
What  a  singular  chonco  it  was  that  you  should 
have  made  such  a  discovery ! " 

But  Zillah  did  not  seem  to  hear  her.  Before 
she  had  done  speaking  she  had  turned  to  ex- 
amine the  drawer.  There  were  several  papers 
in  it.  All  were  yellow  and  faded,  and  the  writ- 
ing upon  them  wos  jiale  with  age.  These  Zillah 
seized  in  a  nervous  and  tremulous  grasp.  The 
first  one  which  she  unfolded  was  the  secret  ci- 
l)her.  Upon  this  she  gazed  for  some  time  in 
bewilderment,  and  then  opened  a  paper  which 
was  inclosed  within  it.  This  paper,  like  the  oth- 
er, was  faded,  and  the  ink  was  pale.  It  con- 
tained what  seemed  like  a  key  t9  decipher  the 
letters  on  the  other.  These  Zillah  placed  on 
one  side,  not  choosing  to  do  any  more  at  that 
time.  Then  she  went  on  to  examine  the  others. 
What  these  were  has  already  been  explained. 
They  were  the  letters  of  Obed  Chute,  and  the 
farewell  note  of  Lady  Chetwynde.  But  in  ad- 
dition to  these  there  was  another  letter,  with 
which  the  reader  is  not  as  yet  acquainted.  It 
was  ns  brown  and  as  faded  as  the  other  papers, 
with  writing  as  pale  and  as  illegible.  It  was  in 
the  handwriting  of  Obed  Chute.  It  was  as  fol-  I 
lows : 

"  New  York,  October  20, 1R41.      I 

"Dear  Sir, — L.  C.  has  been  in  the  convent  ] 
a  year.    The  seventy  thousand  dollars  will  never 
again  trouble  you.     All  is  now  settled,  and  no 
one  need  ever  know  that  the  Kedfield  Lyttoun 
who  ran  away  with  L.  C.  was  really  Captain  j 


I'omoroy.  There  is  no  possibility  that  any  one 
can  ever  find  it  out,  unless  jou  yourself  discloge 
your  secret.  Allow  nie  to  congratulate  you  on 
thehuppy  termination  of  this  unpleasant  businoiw. 
"  Ycairs,  truly,  Obeu  (?uutk. 

"CuptatU  O.  N.  I'OMKKUY." 

Zillah  read  this  over  many  tinies.  She  could 
not  comprehend  one  word  of  it  as  vet.  Who  was 
L.  ('.  she  knew  not.  The  mention  of  Captain 
I'omeroy,  however,  seemed  to  implicate  her  fa- 
ther ill  some  "unpleasant  business."  A  darker 
anticipation  of  evil,  and  a  profoiinder  dread,  set- 
tled over  her  heart.  .She  did  not  say  a  word  to 
Hilda.  This,  whatever  it  was,  could  not  be  made 
the  subject  of  girlish  confidence.  It  was  some- 
thing which  she  felt  was  to  be  examined  by  her- 
self in  solitude  and  in  fear.  ( )nce  only  did  she 
look  at  Hilda.  It  was  when  the  latter  asked,  in  a 
tone  of  sympathy : 

"  Dear  Zillah,  what  is  it  ?"  And,  as  she  asked 
this,  she  stooped  forward  and  kissed  her. 

Zillah  shuddered  involuntarily.  Why?  Not 
because  she  suspected  her  friend.  Her  nature 
was  too  noble  to  harbor  suspicion.  Her  shud- 
der rather  arose  from  that  mysterious  premoni- 
tion which,  according  to  old  superstitions,  arises 
warningly  ond  instinctively  and  blindly  at  the  ap- 
proach of  danger.  So  the  old  superstition  says 
that  this  involuntary  shudder  will  arise  when  any 
one  steps  over  the  place  which  is  destined  to  bo 
our  grave.     A  pleasant  fancy! 

Zillah  shuddered,  and  looked  up  at  Hilda  with 
a  strange  dazed  expression.  It  was  some  tiiHO 
before  she  spoke. 

"They  are  family  papers,"  she  said.  "  I — I 
don't  understand  them.    I  will  look  over  them." 

She  gathered  up  the  i)aj)ers  abruptly,  and  left 
the  room.  As  the  door  closed  after  her  Hilda 
sat  looking  at  the  place  where  she  had  vanished, 
with  a  very  singular  smile  on  her  face. 

For  the  remainder  of  that  day  Zillah  continued 
shut  up  in  her  own  room.  Hilda  went  once 
to  ask,  in  a  voice  of  the  sweetest  and  tenderest 
sympathy,  what  was  the  matter.  Zillah  only  re- 
plied that  she  was  not  well,  and  was  lying  down. 
She  would  not  open  her  door,  however.  Again, 
before  bedtime,  Hilda  went.  At  her  earnest  en- 
treaty Zillah  let  her  in.  She  was  very  pale,  with 
a  weary,  anxious  expression  on  her  face. 

Hilda  embraced  her  and  kissed  her. 

"  Oh,  my  darling,"  said  she,  "will  you  not  tell 
me  your  trouble?  Perhaps  I  may  be  of  use 
to  you.  Will  you  not  give  me  your  conh- 
dence  ?" 

"  Not  just  yet,  Hilda  dearest.  I  do  not  want 
to  trouble  you.  Besides,  there  may  be  nothing  in 
it.  I  will  speak  to  the  Earl  first,  and  then  I  will 
tell  you." 

"  And  you  will  not  tell  me  now?"  murmured 
Hilda,  reproachfully. 

"No,  dearest,  not  now.  Better  not.  You 
will  soon  know  all,  whether  it  is  good  or  bad.  I 
am  going  back  to  Chetwynde  to-morrow." 

"To-morrow?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Zillah,  mcunifnlly.  "  I  must  go 
back  to  end  my  suspense.  You  can  do  nothing. 
Lord  Chetwynde  only  can  tell  me  what  I  want 
to  know.  I  will  tell  him  all,  and  he  can  dispel 
my  trouble,  or  else  deepen  it  in  my  heart  for- 
ever." 

"  How  terrible!     What  a  frightful  thing  this 


64 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


mu8t  lie.  My  darling,  my  friend,  my  sister,  tell 
me  this— was  it  that  wretched  paper?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Ziliah.  "And  now,  dearest,  goot'- 
iiight.     Leave  me — I  am  very  miserable." 

Hilda  kissed  her  again. 

"Darling,  I  would  not  leave  you,  hut  you  drive 
me  away.  You  have  no  confidence  in  your  poor 
Hilda.  But  I  will  not  reproach  you.  Good- 
night, darling." 

"Good-night,  dearcHt." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

A    SHOCK. 

The  discovery  of  these  papers  thus  brought 
the  visit  to  Pomeroy  f  "ourt  to  an  abrupt  termina- 
tion. The  ])lace  had  now  become  intolerable  to 
Ziliah.  In  her  impatience  she  was  eager  to 
leave,  and  her  one  thought  now  was  to  apply  to 
Lord  Chetwynde  for  a  solution  of  this  dark  my.s- 
tery. 

"Why,  Ziliah,"  he  cried,  as  she  came  back; 
"  what  is  the  meaning  of  this  ?  You  iiave  made 
hut  a  short  stay.  Was  Pomeroy  Court  too 
gloomy,  or  did  you  think  that  your  poor  fa- 
ther was  lonely  here  without  you  ?  Lonely 
enough  he  'vas — and  glad  indeed  he  is  to  see 
his  little  Z  llah." 

And  Lord  (^hetwynde  kissed  her  fondly,  ex- 
hibiting a  delight  which  touched  Ziliah  to  tiie 
heart.  She  could  not  say  any  thing  then  and 
there  about  the  real  cause  of  her  sudden  return. 
She  would  have  to  wait  for  a  favorable  oppor- 
tunity, even  th.ugh  her  heart  was  throbbing,  in 
her  fierce  impatience,  as  though  it  would  burst. 
She  took  refuge  in  caresses  aTid  in  general  re- 
marks as  to  her  joy  on  finding  l'"rself  back  again, 
leaving  him  to  suppose  that  the  gloom  which  hung 
around  Pomeroy  Court  now  had  been  too  op- 
pressive for  her,  and  that  she  had  hurried  away 
from  it. 

The  subject  which  was  up])ermost  in  Zillah's 
mind  was  one  which  siie  hardly  knew  how  to  in- 
troduce. It  was  of  such  delicacy  that  the  idea 
of  mentioning  it  to  the  Karl  Klled  her  with  re- 
pugnance. For  the  first  day  she  was  distrait  and 
preoccupied.  Other  days  followed.  Her  nights 
were  sleepless.  The  Karl  soon  saw  that  there 
was  something  on  her  mind,  and  taxed 'her  with 
it.     Ziliah  burst  into  tears  and  sot  weening. 

"My  child,"  Said  tiie  Karl,  tenderly*  "This 
must  not  go  on.  There  can  not  be  any  thing  in 
your  thoughts  which  you  need  hesitate  to  tell 
me.  Will  you  not  show  some  confidence  toward 
me?" 

Ziliah  looked  at  liim,  and  his  loving  face  en- 
couraged her.  Besides,  this  suspense  was  unen- 
durable. Her  repugnance  to  mention  such  a 
thing  for  a  time  made  her  silent ;  but  at  last  she 
ventured  upon  the  dark  and  terrible  subject. 

"Something  occurred  at  Pomeroy  Court,  "she 
said,  and  then  sto])]ied. 

"Well?"  said  the  Karl,  kindly  and  encoura- 
gingly. 

"It  is  something  which  I  want  very  much  to 
ask  you  about — " 

* '  Well,  why  don't  you  ?"  said  Lord  Chetwynde. 
"  My  poor  child,  you  can't  be  afraid  of  me,  and 
yet  it  looks  like  it.  '^ou  arc  very  mysieiious. 
This  'something'  must  have  been  very  iniport- 


!  ant  to  have  sent  you  back  so  soon.  Was  it  a 
discovery,  or  was  it  a  fright '.  Did  you  find  a 
dead  body  ?  But  what  is  ,hat  you  can  want  to 
ask  me  about?  I  have  brsn  a  hermit  )r  twenty 
years.  I  crept  into  my  shell  before  you  were 
born,  and  here  I  have  lived  ever  since." 

The  Karl  spoke  playfully,  yet  with  an  uneasy 
curiosity  in  his  tone.  Ziliah  was  encouraged  to 
go  on. 

"It  is  something."  said  she,  timidly  and  hes- 
itatingly, "  which  I  found  among  my  father's  pa- 
pers. " 

Lord  Chetwynde  looked  all  around  the  room. 
Then  he  rose. 

" ('ome  into  the  library," said  he.  "Perhaps 
it  is  something  very  important ;  and  if  so,  there 
need  be  no  listeners." 

Saying  this  he  led  the  way  in  silence,  followed 
by  Ziliah.  Arriving  there  he  motioned  Ziliah  to 
a  seat,  and  took  a  chair  opposite  hers,  looking  at 
her  with  a  glance  of  perplexity  and  curiosity. 
Amidst  this  there  was  an  air  of  apprehension 
about  him,  as  though  he  feared  that  the  secret 
which  Ziliah  wished  to  tell  might  be  connected 
with  those  events  in  his  life  which  he  wished  to 
remain  unrevealed.  Tiiis  suspicion  was  natural. 
His  own  secret  was  so  huge,  so  engrossing,  that 
when  one  came  to  him  as  Ziliah  did  now,  bowed 
down  by  the  weight  of  another  secret,  he  would 
naturally  imagine  that  it  was  connected  with  his 
own.  He  sat  now  opposite  Ziliah,  with  this  fear 
in  his  face,  and  with  the  air  of  a  man  who  was 
trying  to  fortify  himself  against  some  menacing 
calamity. 

"I  have  been  in  very  deep  trouble,"  began 
Ziliah,  timidly,  and  with  downcast  eyes.  "This 
time  I  ventured  into  dear  papa's  study — and  I 
happened  to  examine  his  desk." 

She  hesitated. 

"  Well  ?"  said  the  Earl,  in  a  low  voice. 

"In  the  desk  I  found  a  secret  drawer,  which 
I  would  not  have  discovered  except  by  the  merest 
chance ;  and  inside  of  this  secret  drawer  I  found 
some  papers,  which — which  have  filled  me  with 
anxiety.  ' 

"  A  secret  drawer?"  said  the  Enrl,  as  Ziliah 
again  paused.  "And  what  were  these  papers 
that  you  found  in  it?"  There  was  intense  anx- 
iety in  the  tones  of  his  voice  as  he  asked  this 
([uestion. 

"  I  found  there,"  said  Ziliah,  "  a  paper  written 
in  cipher.  There  was  a  key  "onnected  with  it, 
by  means  of  wiiich  I  was  able  to  decipher  it." 

•Vritten  in  cijiber?  How  singular!"  said 
tiie  Earl,  with  increasing  anxiety.  "  What  could 
it  possibly  have  been  ?" 

Ziliah  stole  a  glance  at  him  fearfully  and  in- 
quiringly. She  saw  that  he  was  much  excited 
and  most  eivgev  in  his  curiosity. 

"What  was  it?"  repeated  the  Earl.  "Why 
do  you  keep  me  in  susjiense  ?  You  need  not  he 
afraid  of  me,  my  child.  Of  course  it  is  nothing 
that  1  am  in  any  way  concerned  with  ;  and  even 
if  it  were — why — at  any  rate,  tell  me  what  it 
was. " 

The  Earl  spoke  in  a  tone  of  feverish  excite- 
ment, which  was  .so  unlike  any  thing  that  Ziliah 
had  ever  seen  in  him  before  that  her  embarrass- 
ment was  increased. 

"  It  was  something,"  she  went  on,  de.sjierately, 
and  in  a  voice  which  trembled  with  agitation, 
"with   which  you   are  connected — somethin.u 


THE  CRYPTOGUAM. 


65 


'  began 
"This 


which 
!  merest 
I  fotind 
mo  with 

as  Zillah 
papers 
ise  anx- 
iked  this 

written 
with  it, 

ler  it." 
!"   said 

hat  could 


'  Why 

ed  not  he 

s  nothing 

and  even 

what  it 

1  excite- 
lat  Zillnli 
iibarrass- 

sperately, 
iigitation, 
omethiiiK 


which  I  had  never  heard  of  before — something 
which  filled  me  with  horror.  I  will  show  it  to 
you — but  I  want  first  to  ask  you  one  thing.  Will 
you  answer  it  ?" 

"Why  should  1  not?"  said  the  Earl,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"  It  is  about  Lady  Chetwynde,"  said  Zillah, 
whose  voice  had  died  away  to  a  whisper. 

The  Eari's  face  seemed  to  turn  to  stone  as  he 
looked  at  her.  He  had  been  half  prepared  for 
this,  but  still,  when  it  finally  came,  it  was  over- 
whelming. Once  before,  and  on';3  only  in  iiis 
life,  had  he  told  his  secret.  That  was  to  Gen- 
eral I'oineroy.  But  Zillah  was  different,  and 
even  she,  much  as  he  loved  her,  was  not  one  to 
whom  he  could  speak  about  such  a  thing  as  this. 

"  Well  ?"  said  he  at  last,  in  a  harsh,  con- 
strained voice.     "  Ask  what  you  wish." 

Zillah  started.  The  tone  was  so  ditt'erent  from 
that  in  which  Lord  Chetwynde  usually  spoke  that 
she  was  frightened. 

"  I — I  do  not  know  how  to  ask  >'.'hat  I  want 
to  ask,"  she  stammered. 

"I  can  imngine  it,"  said  the  Earl.  "It  is 
about  my  dishonor.  I  told  (ieneral  I'omeroy 
about  it  once,  and  it  seems  that  he  has  kindly 
written  it  out  for  your  benefit." 

Bittei'ness  indescribable  was  in  the  Earl's  tones 
as  he  said  this.  Zillah  shrank  back  into  herself 
and  looked  with  fear  and  wonder  upon  this  man, 
who  tt  few  moments  before  had  been  all  fond- 
ness, but  now  was  all  suspicion.  Her  first  im- 
pulse was  to  go  and  caress  him,  and  explain 
away  the  cipher  so  that  it  might  never  again 
troui)le  him  in  this  way.  But  she  was  too  frank 
and  honest  to  do  this,  and,  besides,  her  own  de- 
sire to  unravel  the  mystery  had  by  this  time  be- 
come so  intense  that  it  was  im])ossible  to  stop. 
The  very  agitation  of  the  Earl,  while  it  fright- 
ened her,  still  gave  new  power  to  her  eager  and 
feverish  curiosity.  But  now,  more  than  ever,  she 
began  to  realize  what  all  this  involved.  That 
face  which  caught  her  eyes,  once  all  love,  which 
had  never  before  regarded  her  with  aught  but 
tenderness,  yet  which  now  seemed  cold  and  icy 
— that  face  told  her  all  the  task  that  lay  before 
her.  Could  she  encounter  it  ?  But  how  could 
she  help  it?  Dare  she  go  on?  Yet  she  could 
not  go  back  now. 

The  Earl  saw  her  hesitation. 

"  I  know  what  you  wish  to  ask,"  said  he,  "and 
will  answer  it.  Child,  she  dishonored  me — she 
dragged  my  name  down  into  the  dust!  Do  you 
ask  more?    She  (led  with  a  villain!" 

That  stern,  white  face,  which  was  set  in  an- 
guish before  her,  from  whose  lips  these  words 
seemed  to  be  torn,  as,  one  by  one,  they  were 
flimg  out  to  her  ears,  was  remembered  by  Zillah 
many  and  many  a  time  in  after  years.  At  this 
moment  the  ett'ect  upon  her  was  appalling.  She 
was  dumb.  A  vague  desire  to  avert  his  wrath 
arose  in  her  heart.  She  looked  at  him  imploring- 
ly ;  but  her  look  had  no  longer  any  j)ower. 

"Speak!"  he  said,  impatiently,  after  waiting 
for  a  time.  "Speak.  Tell  me  what  it  is  that 
you  have  found ;  tell  me  what  this  thing  is  that 
concerns  me.  Can  it  be  any  thing  more  than  I 
have  said  ?" 

Zillah  trembled.     This  sudden  transformation 
^this  complete  change  from  warm  affection  to 
icy  coldness — from  devoted  love  to  iron  stern- 
ness— Wttii  something  which  she  did  not  antici- 
E 


pate.  Being  thus  taken  unawares,  she  was  all 
unnerved  and  overcome.  She  could  no  lunger 
restrain  herself. 

"Oh,  father!"  she  cried,  bursting  into  tears, 
and  flinging  herself  at  his  feet  in  uncontrollable 
emotion.  "Oh,  father!  Do  not  look  at  me  so — 
do  not  speak  so  to  your  poor  Zillah.  Have  I  any 
friend  on  earth  but  you  ?" 

She  clasped  his  thin,  white  hands  in  hers,  while 
hot  tears  fell  upon  them.  But  the  Earl  sat  un- 
moved, and  changed  not  a  muscle  of  his  coun- 
tenance. He  waited  for  a  time,  iaking  no  no- 
tice of  her  anguish,  and  then  spoke,  with  no  re- 
laxation of  the  sternness  of  his  tone. 

"Daughter,"  said  he,  "do  not  become  agi- 
tated. It  was  you  yourself  who  brought  on  this 
conversation.  Let  us  end  it  at  once.  Show  me 
the  pa])er8  of  which  you  speak.  You  say  that  they 
are  connected  with  me — that  they  filled  you  with 
horror.  What  is  it  that  yoij  mean  ?  Something 
more  than  curiosity  about  the  unhappy  woman 
who  was  once  my  wife  has  driven  you  to  ask  ex- 
planations of  nie.     Show  me  the  papers." 

Ilis  tone  forbade  denial.  Zillah  said  not  a 
word.  Slowly  she  drew  from  her  pocket  those 
papers,  heavy  with  fate,  and,  with  a  trembling 
hand,  she  gave  them  to  the  Earl.  Scarcely  had 
she  done  so  than  she  repented.  But  it  was  too 
late.  Beside,  of  what  avail  would  it  have  been 
to  have  kept  them  ?  She  herself  had  begun  this 
conversation ;  she  herself  had  sought  for  a  rev- 
elation of  this  mystery.  The  end  must  come, 
whatever  it  might  be. 

"Oh,  father!"  she  moaned,  imploringly. 

"  What  is  it?"  asked  the  Earl. 

"  You  knew  my  dear  papa  all  his  life,  did  you 
not,  from  his  boyhood  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  the  Earl,  mechanically,  looking 
at  the  papers  which  Zillah  hud  placed  in  his 
hand;  "yes — from  boyliood." 

"And  you  loved  and  lionored  him?" 

"Yes." 

"Was  there  ever  a  time  in  which  you  lost 
sight  of  one  another,  or  did  not  know  all  about 
one  another?" 

"Certainly.  For  twenty  years  we  lost  sight 
of  one  another  completely.     Why  do  you  ask  ?" 

"  Did  he  ever  live  in  London?"  asked  Zillah, 
despairingly. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  Earl ;  "  he  lived  there  for  two 
years,  and  I  scarcely  ever  saw  him.  I  was  in 
politics ;  he  was  in  the  army.  I  was  busy  every 
moment  of  my  time ;  he  had  all  that  leisure 
which  officers  enjoy,  and  leading  the  life  of  gay- 
ety  peculiar  to  them.  But  why  do  you  ask  ? 
What  connection  has  all  this  with  the  papere  ?" 

Zillah  murmured  some  inaudible  words,  and 
then  sat  watching  the  Earl  as  he  began  to  exam- 
ine the  papers,  with  a  face  on  which  there  were 
visible  a  thousand  contending  emotions.  The 
Earl  looked  over  the  papers.  There  was  the  ci- 
pher and  the  key ;  and  there  was  also  a  paper 
written  out  by  Zillah,  containing  the  explanation 
of  the  cijiher,  according  to  the  key.  On  the  pa- 
per which  contained  the  key  was  a  written  state- 
ment to  the  cftect  that  two-thirds  of  the  letters 
had  no  meaning.  Trusting  to  this,  Zillah  had 
written  out  her  translation  of  the  cipher,  just  as 
Hilda  had  before  done. 

The  Earl  read  the  translation  through  most 
carefully. 

"  What's  this  ?"  he  exclaimed,  in  deeper  agita> 


66 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


lion.  Zillah  made  no  reply.  In  fact,  at  that 
mument  her  heart  was  throbbing  so  furiously 
that  she  could  not  have  spoken  a  word.  Now 
had  come  the  crisis  of  her  fate,  and  her  heart,  by 
a  certain  deep  instinct,  told  her  this.  Beneath 
all  the  agitation  arising  from  the  change  in  the 
Karl  there  was  something  more  profound,  more 
dread.  It  was  a  continnntion  of  that  dark  fore- 
boding which  she  had  felt  at  I'omeroy  Court — 
a  c—t'-.m  fearful  looking  for  of  some  obscure  and 
shadowy  calamity. 

The  Karl,  after  reading  the  translation,  took 
the  cipher  writing  and  held  up  the  key  beside  it, 
while  his  thin  hands  trembled,  and  his  eyes 
seemed  to  devour  the  sheet,  as  he  slowly  s)>ellud 
out  the  frightful  meaning.  It  was  bad  for  Zillah 
that  these  papers  had  fallen  into  his  hands  in 
such  a  way.  Her  evil  star  had  been  in  the  as- 
cendant when  she  was  drawn  on  to  thi.s.  CJom- 
ing  to  him  thus,  from  the  hand  of  Zillah  herself, 
there  was  an  authenticity  and  an  authority  about 
the  papers  which  otherwise  miglit  have  been 
wanting.  It  was  to  him,  at  this  time,  precisely 
the  same  as  if  they  had  been  handed  to  him  by 
the  General  himself.  Had  they  been  discovered 
by  himself  origiiuUly,  it  is  possiUe — in  fact,  high- 
ly probable — that  he  would  have  looked  upon 
them  with  different  eyes,  and  their  effect  upon 
him  would  have  been  far  otherwise.  As  it  was, 
however,  Zillah  herself  had  found  them  and  given 
them  to  him.  Zillah  had  been  exciting  him  by 
her  agitation  and  her  suffering,  and  had,  last  of 
all,  been  rousing  him  gradually  up  to  a  pitch  of 
the  most  inten.se  exi  itement,  by  the  conversation 
which  she  had  brought  forward,  by  her  timidity, 
her  reluctance,  her  strange  questionings,  and  her 
general  agitation.  To  a  task  which  retjuired  the 
utmost  coolness  of  feeling,  and  calm  impartiality 
of  judgment,  he  brought  a  feverish  he  -,  a  heated 
brain,  and  an  unreasoning  fear  of  some  territic 
disclosure.  All  this  prepared  him  to  accept  blind- 
ly whatever  the  paper  might  reveal. 

As  he  examined  the  ])aper  he  did  not  look  at 
Zillah,  but  spelled  out  the  words  from  the  char- 
acters, one  by  one,  and  saw  that  the  translation 
was  correct.  This  took  a  long  time  ;  and  all  the 
while  Zillah  sat  there,  with  her  eyes  fastened  on 
him  ;  but  he  did  not  give  her  one  look.  All  his 
soul  seemed  to  be  absorbed  by  the  papers  before 
him.  At  last  he  ended  with  the  cipher  writing — 
or,  at  least,  with  as  much  of  it  as  was  sr;)pc.sed 
to  be  decipherable — and  then  he  turned  lo  the 
other  papers.  These  he  read  through ;  and  then, 
begiiniing  again,  he  read  them  thiough  once 
more.  One  only  exclannition  escaped  him.  It 
was  while  reading  that  last  letter,  where  mention 
was  made  of  the  name  Keilfir/d  Lyttoun  being 
an  assumed  one.  Then  he  said,  in  a  low  voice 
which  seemed  like  a  groan  wrung  out  by  anguish 
from  his  inmost  soul : 

"Oh,  my  God!  my  God!" 

At  last  the  Karl  (inished  examining  the  pa- 
per*.. He  put  them  down  feebly,  and  sat  star- 
ing blankly  at  vacancy.  He  looked  ten  years 
older  than  when  he  had  entered  the  dining-room. 
His  face  was  as  bloodless  as  the  face  of  a  corpse, 
his  lips  were  ashen,  and  new  furrows  si  -d  to 
have  been  traced  on  his  brow.  C  jiis  face 
there  was  stamped  a  fixed  and  settled  expression 
of  dull,  chanfjeless  anguish,  which  smote  Zillah 
to  hvv  heart.  He  did  not  see  her — he  did  not 
notice   that   other  face,  as  pallid  as  his  own, 


I  which  was  turned  toward  his,  with  an  agony  in 
I  its  expression  which  rivaled  all  thai  he  was  en- 
during. No — he  noticed  tuiching,  and  saw  no 
one.  All  his  soul  was  taken  u))  now  with  one 
thought.  He  had  read  the  paper,  and  had  at 
once  accepted  its  terrific  meaning.  Tc  him  it 
had  declared  that  in  the  tragetly  of  his  young 
I  life,  n(|t  only  liis  wife  had  been  false,  but  his 
'  friend  also.  More — that  it  was  his  friend  who 
had  betrayed  his  wife.  More  yet — and  there 
was  fresh  anguish  in  this  thought— this  friend, 
after  the  absence  of  many  years,  had  returned 
and  claimed  his  friendship,  and  had  received  his 
confidences.  To  him  he  had  poured  out  the 
grief  of  his  heart — the  confes.sion  of  life-long 
sorrows  which  had  been  wrought  by  the  very 
man  to  whom  he  told  his  tale.  And  this  was 
the  man  who,  under  the  plea  of  ancient  friend- 
ship, had  bought  his  son  for  gold  !  Great  Heav- 
en !  the  .son  of  the  wonnui  whom  he  had  ruined 
— and  for  gold !  He  had  drawn  away  his  wife  to 
ruin — he  had  come  and  drawn  away  his  son — 
into  what  ?  into  a  marriage  with  the  daughter 
of  his  own  mother's  betrayer. 

Such  were  the  thoughts,  mad,  frenzied,  that 
filled  Lord  C'hetwynde's  mind  as  he  sat  there 
stunned  —  paralyzed  by  this  hideous  accumula- 
tion of  intolerable  griefs.  What  was  Zillah  to 
him  now  ?  The  child  of  a  foul  traitor.  The 
one  to  whom  his  noble  son  had  been  sold.  That 
son  had  been,  as  he  once  said,  the  solace  of  his 
life.  For  his  sake  he  had  been  content  to  live 
even  under  his  load  of  shame  and  misery.  For 
him  he  had  labored ;  for  his  happiness  he  had 
planned.  And  for  what?  What?  That  which 
was  too  hideous  to  think  of — a  living  death — a 
union  with  one  from  whom  he  ought  to  stand 
apart  for  evermore. 

Little  did  Zillah  know  what  thoughts  were 
sweeping  and  surging  through  the  mind  of  Lord 
("hetwynde  as  she  sat  there  watching  him  with 
her  awful  eyes.  Little  did  she  dream  of  the 
feelings  with  which,  at  that  moment,  he  regard- 
ed her.  Nothing  of  this  kind  came  to  her.  One 
only  thought  was  present — the  anguish  which  he 
was  enduring.  The  sight  of  that  anguish  was 
intolerable.  She  looked,  and  waited,  and  at  last, 
unable  to  bear  this  any  longer,  she  sprang  for- 
ward, and  tore  his  hands  away  from  his  face. 

"it's  not!  It's  not!"  she  gasped.  "Say  you 
do  not  believe  it!  Oh,  father!  It's  impossi- 
ble!" 

The  Earl  withdrew  his  hands,  and  shrank  away 
from  her,  regarding  her  with  that  tjhink  gaze 
which  shows  that  the  mind  sees  not  the  mate- 
rial form  toward  which  the  eyes  are  turned,  but 
is  taken  up  with  its  own  thoughts. 

"  Im))ossible  ?"  he  repeated.  "Yes.  That  is 
the  word  I  spoke  when  I  first  heard  that  s/ie  had 
left  me.  Impo.ssiblo  ?  And  why  ?  Is  a  friend 
more  true  than  a  wife?  After  Lody  (Mietwyndo 
failed  me,  why  should  I  believe  in  Neville  I'ome- 
roy ?  And  you — why  did  you  not  let  me  end 
my  life  in  peace?  Why  did  you  bring  to  me 
this  frightful — this  damning  evidence  which  de- 
strovH  my  faith  not  in  man,  but  even  in  Heaven 
itself?" 

"  Father!     Oh,  father!"  moaned  Zillah. 

Rut  the  Earl  turned  away.  She  seized  his 
hand  again  in  both  hers.  Again  he  shrank 
away,  and  withdrew  his  hand  from  her  touch. 

She  was  abhorrent  to  him  then ! 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


er 


>• 
H 

a> 
H 

> 

Q 

r 
> 
as 

► 

H 

>• 
O 

► 

a; 
o 

«< 


Thi»  was  Iier  thought.  She  stepped  back,  and 
at  once  a  wild  revulsion  of  reeling  took  place 
within  her  also.  All  the  fierce  pride  of  her  hot, 
impassioned  Southern  nature  rose  up  in  rebell- 
ion against  this  sudden,  this  hasty  change.  Why 
should  he  so  soon  lose  faith  ni  her  father?  lie 
guilty!— her  father!— the  noble  —  the  gentle — 
the  8tainlu8B— the  true — ho  I  the  pure  in  heart — 


the  one  who  through  all  her  life  had  stood  be- 
fore her  as  tho  ideal  of  manly  honor  and  loyalty 
and  truth  ?  Never !  If  it  came  to  a  (juestion 
between  Lord  Chetwynde  and  that  idol  of  her 
young  life,  whose  memory  she  adored,  then 
Lord  Chetwynde  must  go  down.  Who  was  he 
that  dai-ed  to  think  evil  for  one  moment  of  the 
noblo8t  of  men  I    Could  ho  himself  compare  with 


G8 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


'!   I 


!    i 


the  father  whom  she  had  lost,  in  all  that  is  highest 
in  manhood?  No.  The  charge  was  foul  and 
false.  I^ord  (-hetwynde  was  false  for  so  doubt- 
ing his  friend. 

All  this  flashed  over  Zillah's  mind,  And  at  that 
moment,  in  her  revulsion  of  indignant  pride,  she 
forgot  altogether  all  those  doubts  which,  but  a 
short  time  before,  had  been  agitating  her  own 
soul — doubts,  too,  which  were  so  strong  that 
they  had  forced  her  to  bring  on  this  scene  with 
the  Karl.  All  this  was  forgotten.  Her  loyalty 
to  her  father  triumphed  over  doubt,  so  soon  as 
she  saw  another  sharing  tiiat  doubt. 

But  her  thoughts  were  suddenly  checked. 

The  Karl,  who  had  but  lately  shrunk  away 
from  her,  now  turned  toward  her,  and  looked  at 
her  with  a  strange,  dazed,  blank  expression  of 
face,  and  wild  vacant  eyes.  For  a  moment  he 
sat  turned  toward  her  thus ;  and  then,  giving  a 
deep  groan,  he  fell  foi-ward  out  of  his  chair  on 
the  Hoor.  With  a  piercing  cry  Zillah  sprang 
toward  him  and  tried  to  raise  him  up.  Her  cry 
aroused  the  household.  Mrs.  Hart  was  first 
among  those  who  rushed  to  the  room  to  help 
her.  She  flung  her  aims  around  the  prostrate 
form,  and  lifted  it  upon  the  sofa.  As  he  lay 
there  a  shudder  passed  through  Zillah's  frame  at 
the  sight  which  she  beheld.  For  the  Karl,  in 
falling,  had  struck  his  head  against  the  sharp 
comer  of  the  table,  and  his  white  and  venerable 
hairs  were  now  all  stained  with  blood,  which 
trickled  slowly  over  his  wan  pule  face. 


CHAPTKR  XIX. 

A     NEW     PERPLEXITT. 

At  the  sight  of  that  venerable  face,  as  white 
as  marble,  now  set  in  the  fixedness  of  death, 
whose  white  hair  was  all  stained  with  the  i)lood 
that  oozed  from  the  wound  on  his  forehead,  all 
Zillah's  tenderness  returned.  Bitterly  she  re- 
proached herself 

"I  have  killed  him!  It  was  all  my  fault!" 
she  cried.  "(Jh,  save  him!  Do  something! 
Can  you  not  save  him  'i" 

Mrs.  Hart  did  not  seem  to  hear  her  at  all. 
She  had  carried  the  Karl  to  the  sofa,  and  then 
she  knelt  by  his  side,  with  her  arms  Hung  around 
him.  (She  seemed  unconscious  of  the  presence 
of  Zillah.  Her  head  lay  on  the  Karl's  breast. 
At  last  she  pressed  her  lips  to  his  forehead,  where 
the  blood  flowed,  witii  a  quick,  feverish  kiss. 
Her  white  face,  as  it  was  set  against  the  stony 
face  of  the  Earl,  startled  Zillah.  Khe  stood 
mute. 

The  servants  hurried  in.  Mrs.  Hart  roused 
herself,  and  had  the  Karl  carried  to  his  room. 
Zillah  followed.  The  Karl  was  put  to  bed.  A 
servant  was  sent  off  for  a  doctor.  Mrs.  Hart 
and  Zillah  watched  anxiously  till  the  doctor 
•■ame.  The  doctor  dressed  the  wound,  and  gave 
directions  for  the  treatment  of  the  patient.  Qui- 
et above  all  things  was  enjoined.  Apoplexy  was 
hinted  at,  but  it  was  only  a  hint.  The  real  con- 
viction of  the  doctor  seemed  to  be  that  it  was 
mental  trouble  of  some  kind,  and  this  conviction 
was  shared  by  those  who  watched  the  J^^arl. 

Zillah  and  Mrs.  Hart  both  watched  that  night. 
They  sat  in  an  adjoining  room.  But  little  was 
said  at  first.     Zillali  was  busied  with  her  own 


thoughts,  and  Mrs.  Hart  was  preoccupied,  and 
more  distrait  than  usual. 

Midnight  came.  For  hours  Zillah  had  brood- 
ed over  her  own  sorrows.  She  longed  for  sym- 
pathy. Mrs.  Hart  seemed  to  her  to  be  the  one 
in  whom  she  might  best  confide.  The  evident 
affection  which  Mrs.  Hart  felt  for  the  Karl  was 
of  itself  an  inducement  to  confidence.  Her  own 
affection  for  the  aged  housekeeper  also  impelled 
her  to  tell  her  all  that  had  happened.  And  so  it 
was  that,  while  they  sat  there  together,  Zillah 
gradually  told  her  about  her  interview  with  the 
Karl. 

But  the  story  which  Zillah  told  did  not  com- 
prise the  whole  truth.  She  did  not  wish  to  go 
into  details,  and  there  were  many  circumstances 
which  she  did  not  feel  inclined  to  tell  to  the 
hoiisekeei)er.  There  was  no  reason  why  she 
should  tell  about  the  secret  cipher,  and  very 
many  reasons  why  she  should  not.  It  was  an 
affair  which  concerned  her  father  and  her  fam- 
ily. That  her  own  fears  were  well  founded  she 
dared  not  .suppose,  and  therefore  she  would  not 
even  hint  about  such  fears  to  another.  Above 
all,  she  was  unwilling  to  tell  what  effect  the  dis- 
closure of  that  secret  of  hers  had  ujion  tho  Karl. 
Better  far,  it  seemed  to  her,  it  would  be  to  cany 
that  secret  to  the  grave  than  to  disclose  it  in  any 
confidence  to  any  third  jierson.  Whatever  the 
residt  might  be,  it  would  be  better  to  hold  it  con- 
cealed between  the  Karl  and  herself. 

What  Zillah  said  was  to  the  ett'ect  that  she  had 
been  asking  the  Karl  about  Lady  Chetwynde ; 
that  the  mention  of  the  subject  had  produced  an 
extraordinary  effect ;  that  she  wished  to  with- 
draw it,  but  the  Earl  insisted  on  knowing  what 
she  had  to  say. 

"O'v"  she  cried,  "  how  bitterly  I  lament  that 
I  sail  ly  thing  about  it !  But  I  had  seen  some- 
thing at  home  which  excited  my  curiosity.  It 
was  about  Lady  Chetwynde.  It  stated  that  she 
eloped  with  a  certain  Hedfield  Lyttoun,  and  that 
I  the  name  was  an  assumed  one ;  l)ut  what, "  cried 
;  Zillah,  suddenly  starting  forward — "what  is  the 
;  matter  ?" 

While  Zillah  was  speaking  Mrs.  Hart's  face — 
always  pale — seemed  to  turn  gray,  and  a  shud- 
der passed  through  her  thin,  emaciated  frame. 
She  pressed  her  hand  on  her  heart,  and  sudden- 
ly sank  back  with  a  groan. 

Zillah  sprang  toward  her  and  raised  her  up. 
Mrs.  Hart  still  kept  her  hand  on  her  heart,  and 
gave  utterance  to  low  moans  of  anguish.  Zillah 
chafed  her  hands,  and  then  hurried  off  and  got 
some  wine.  At  the  taste  of  the  stimidating 
liquor  the  poor  creature  revived.  She  then  sat 
panting,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  floor.  Zillah 
sat  looking  at  her  without  saying  a  word,  aiul 
afraid  to  touch  again  upon  a  subject  which  had 
produced  so  disastrous  an  effect.  Yet  why  should 
it  ?  Why  should  this  woman  show  emotion  equal 
to  that  of  the  Earl  at  the  very  mention  of  such  a 
thing?  There  was  snrely  some  unfathomable 
mystery  about  it.  The  emotion  of  the  Karl  was 
intelligible — that  of  Mrs.  Hart  was  not  so.  Such 
were  the  thoughts  that  passed  through  her  mind 
as  she  sat  there  in  silence  watching  her  com- 
panion. 

Hours  passed  without  one  word  being  spoken. 
Zillah  frequently  urged  Mrs.  Hart  to  go  to  bed, 
but  Mrs.  Hart  refused.  She  could  not  sleep,  she 
said,  and  she  would  rather  be  near  tho  Karl. 


THE  CRYPTOGUAM. 


69 


:.'s  face — 
a  shud- 

d  frame, 
sudden- 


At  length  Zillah,  penetrated  with  pity  for  the 
poor  Kiitl'ering  woman,  insisted  on  her  lying  down 
on  the  sofa.  Mrs.  Hart  had  to  yield.  !She  lay 
down  accordingly,  but  not  to  sleep.  The  sighs 
that  escaped  her  from  time  to  time  showed  that 
her  secret  sorrow  kept  her  awake. 

Suddenly,  out  of  a  deep  silence,  Mrs.  Hnrt 
sprang  up  and  turned  her  white  face  towaid  Zil- 
l.ih.  Her  large,  weird  eyes  seemed  to  burn  them- 
selves into  Zillah's  brain.  Her  lips  moved.  It 
was  but  in  a  whisper  that  she  spoke : 

"  Never — never — never — mention  it  again — 
either  to  him  or  to  me.     It  is  hell  to  both  of  us ! " 

She  fell  back  again,  moaning. 

Zillah  sat  transfixed,  awe-struck  and  wonder- 
ing. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

A   MODEL   NliaSE,   AND  FRIKND   IN   NKED. 

Zii.LAH  did  not  tell  Hilda  about  the  particular 
cause  of  the  Karl's  sickness  for  some  time,  but 
Hilda  was  sufficiently  acute  to  conjecture  what 
it  might  be.  She  was  too  wary  to  press  mutters, 
and  although  she  longed  to  know  all,  yet  she  re- 
frained from  asking.  She  knew  enough  of  Zil- 
lah's frank  and  confiding  nature  to  feel  sure  that 
the  confidence  would  come  of  itself  some  day  un- 
asked. Zillah  was  one  of  those  who  can  not  keep 
tt  secret.  Warm-hearted,  open,  and  impulsive, 
she  was  ever  on  the  watch  for  sympathy,  and  no 
sooner  did  she  have  a  secret  than  she  longed  to 
shnro  it  with  some  one.  She  had  divulged  her 
secret  to  the  Earl,  with  results  that  were  lamcnt- 
aiile.  She  had  partially  disclosed  it  to  Mrs.  Hart, 
with  results  equally  lamentable.  The  sickness 
of  the  Karl  and  of  Mrs.  Hart  was  now  added  to 
her  troubles ;  and  the  time  would  soon  come 
when,  fi-om  the  necessities  of  her  nature,  she 


would  be  compelled  to  pour  out  her  soul  to  Hil- 
da.    So  Hilda  waited. 

Mrs.  Hart  seemed  to  be  completely  broken 
down.  She  made  a  feeble  attempt  to  take  part 
in  nursing  the  Earl,  but  fainted  away  in  his  room. 
Hilda  was  obliged  to  tell  her  that  she  would  be 
of  more  use  by  staying  away  altogether,  and  Mrs. 
Hart  had  to  obey.  She  tottered  about,  fi-etjuent- 
ly  haunting  tiiat  portion  of  the  house  where  the 
E.irl  lay,  and  asking  questions  about  his  health. 
Zillah  and  Hilda  were  the  chief  nurses,  and  took 
turns  at  watching.  But  Zillah  was  inexperi- 
enced, and  rather  noisy.  In  spite  of  her  affec- 
tionate solicitude  she  could  not  create  new  qual- 
ities within  herself,  and  in  one  moment  make 
herself  a  good  nurse.  Hilda,  on  the  contrar}-, 
seemed  formed  by  nature  for  the  sick-room. 
Stealthy,  quiet,  noiseless,  she  moved  about  ns 
silently  ns  a  spirit.  Every  thing  was  in  its  place. 
The  medicines  were  always  arranged  in  the 
best  order.  The  pillows  were  always  comfort- 
able. The  doctor  looked  at  her  out  of  his  pro- 
fessional eyes  with  cordial  approval,  and  when 
he  visited  he  gave  his  directions  always  to  her, 
as  though  she  alone  could  be  considered  a  re- 
sponsible being.  Zillah  saw  this,  but  felt  no  jeal- 
ousy. She  humbly  acquiesced  in  the  doctor's 
decision ;  meekly  felt  that  she  had  none  of  the 
qualities  of  a  nurse ;  and  admired  Hilda's  genius 
for  that  office  with  all  her  heart.  Added  to  this 
conviction  of  her  own  inability,  there  was  the  con- 
sciousness that  she  had  brought  all  this  upon  the 
Karl — a  consciousness  which  brought  on  self-re- 
proach and  perpetual  remorse.  The  very  affec- 
tion which  she  felt  for  Lord  (^hetwynde  of  itself 
incapacitated  her.  A  good  nurse  should  be  cool. 
Like  a  good  doctor  or  a  good  surgeon,  his  af- 
fections should  not  be  too  largely  interested.  It 
is  a  mistake  to  supjjose  that  one's  dear  friends 
make  one's  best  nurses.  They  are  very  well  to 
look  at,  but  not  to  administer  medicine  or  smooth 
the  pillow.  Zillah's  face  of  agony  was  not  so 
conducive  to  recovery  as  the  calm  smile  of  Hil- 
da. The  Earl  did  not  need  kis.ses  or  hot  tears 
upon  his  face.  What  he  did  need  was  quiet, 
and  a  regular  administration  of  medicines  pre- 
sented by  a  cool,  steady  hand. 

The  Earl  was  very  low.  He  was  weak,  yet 
conscious  of  all  that  was  going  on.  Zillah's 
heart  was  gladdened  to  hear  once  more  words 
of  love  from  him.  The  tcnijwrary  hardness  of 
heart  which  had  appalled  her  had  all  passed 
away,  and  the  old  affection  had  returned.  In  a 
few  feeble  words  he  begged  her  not  to  let  (Juy 
know  that  he  was  sick,  for  he  would  soon  re- 
cover, and  it  would  only  worry  his  son.  Most 
of  the  words  which  he  spoke  were  about  that 
son.  Zillah  would  have  given  any  thing  if  she 
cotdd  have  brought  Guy  to  that  bedside.  But 
that  was  impossible,  and  she  could  only  wait 
and  hope. 

Weeks  passed  away,  and  in  the  interviews 
which  she  had  with  Hilda  Zillah  gradually  let 
her  know  all  that  had  happened.  She  told  her 
about  the  discovery  of  the  papers,  and  the  effect 
which  they  had  upon  the  Earl.  At  last,  one 
evening,  she  gave  the  papers  to  Hilda.  It  was 
when  Zillah  came  to  sit  up  with  the  Earl.  Hilda 
took  the  papers  solemnly,  and  said  that  she 
would  look  over  them.  She  reproached  Zillah 
for  not  giving  her  her  confidence  before,  and 
said  that  she  had  a  claim  before  any  one,  and 


70 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


"^^ 


if  she  had  only  told  her  all  about  it  at  Pomeroy 
Court,  this  might  not  have  happened.  All  this 
Zillah  felt  keenly,  and  began  to  think  that  the 
grand  mistake  which  Hhe  hud  made  was  in  not 
taking  Hilda  into  her  confidence  at  the  very  out- 
set. 

"  I  do  not  know  what  these  papers  may  mean," 
said  Hilda ;  "but  I  tell  you  candidly  that  if  they 
contain  what  I  suspect,  1  would  have  advised  you 
never  to  mention  it  to  Lord  Chetwynde.  It  was 
an  awful  thing  to  bring  it  all  up  to  him." 

"Then  you  know  all  about  it?"  asked  Zillah, 
wonderingly. 

"Of  course.  Every  body  knows  the  sorrow 
of  his  life.  It  has  been  public  for  the  last  twen- 
ty years.  I  heard  all  about  it  when  I  was  a  lit- 
tle girl  from  one  of  the  servants.  I  could  have 
advised  you  to  good  purpose,  and  saved  you  from 
sorrow,  if  you  had  only  confided  in  me." 

Such  were  Hilda's  words,  and  Zillah  felt  new 
self-reproach  to  think  that  she  had  not  confided 
in  her  friend. 

"  I  hope  another  time  you  will  not  be  so  want- 
ing in  confidence,"  said  Hilda,  as  she  retired. 
"Do  I  not  deserve  it?" 

"You  do,  you  do,  my  dearest!"  said  Zillah, 
affectionately.  "I  have  always  said  that  you 
were  iike  a  sister — and  after  this  I  will  tell  you 
every  thing." 

Hilda  kissed  her,  and  departed. 

Zillah  waited  impatiently  to  see  Hilda  again. 
She  was  anxious  to  know  what  ett'ect  these  pa- 
pers would  produce  on  her.  Would  she  scout 
them  as  absurd,  or  believe  the  statement  ?  When 
Hilda  appeared  again  to  relieve  her,  all  Zilhih's 
curiosity  was  expressed  in  her  face.  Hut  Hilda 
said  nothing  about  the  papers.  She  urged  Zil- 
lah to  go  and  sleep. 

"I  know  what  you  want  to  say,"  said  she, 
"  but  I  will  not  talk  about  it  now.  Go  otl"  to 
bed,  darling,  and  get  some  rest.  You  need 
it." 

So  Zillah  had  to  go,  and  defer  the  conversa- 
tion till  some  other  time.  She  went  away  to 
bed,  and  slept  but  little.  Before  her  hour  she 
was  up  and  hastened  back. 

"  Why,  Zillah,"  said  Hilda,  "you  are  half  an 
hour  before  your  time.  You  are  wearing  your- 
self out." 

"Did  you  read  the  papers?"  asked  Zillah,  as 
she  kissed  her. 

"Yes,"  said  Hilda,  seriously. 

"And  what  do  you  think  ?"  asked  Zillah,  with 
a  frightened  face. 

"  My  darling,"  said  Hilda,  "  how  excited  you 
are !  How  you  tremble !  Poor  dear !  What  is 
the  matter  ?" 

"That  awful  confession!"  gasped  Zillah,  in  a 
scarce  audible  voice. 

"My  darling,"  said  Hilda,  passing  her  arm 
about  Zillah 's  neck,  "why  should  you  take  it 
so  to  heart  ?  You  have  no  concern  with  it.  Yon 
are  Guy  Molyneux's  wife.  This  paper  iias  now 
no  concern  with  you." 

Zillah  started  back  as  though  she  had  been 
stung.  Nothing  could  have  been  more  abhor- 
rent to  her,  in  such  a  connection,  than  the  sug- 
gestion of  her  marriage. 

"  You  believe  it,  then  ?" 

"  Believe  it!  Why,  don't  you?"  said  Hilda, 
in  wondering  tones.  "You  do,  or  you  would 
not  feel  so.     Why  did  you  ask  the  Earl  ?    Why 


did  you  give  it  to  me?    Is  it  not  your  father's 
own  confession  ?" 

Zillah  shuddered,  and  burst  into  tears. 

"  No,"  she  cried  at  last ;  "  J  do  not  believe  it. 
I  will  never  believe  it.  Why  did  I  ask  the  Earl ! 
Because  I  believed  that  he  would  dispel  my  anx- 
iety.    That  is  all. " 

"  Ah,  poor  child ! "  said  Hilda,  fondly.  "  You 
are  too  young  to  have  trouble.  Think  no  more 
of  this." 

"Think  of  it !  I  tell  you  I  think  of  it  all  the 
time — night  and  day,"  cried  Zillah,  impetuously. 
"Think  of  it!  Why,  what  else  can  I  do  than 
think  of  it  ?" 

"  But  you  do  not  believe  it?" 

"  No.     Never  will  I  believe  it." 

"  Then  why  trouble  yourself  about  it?" 

"  Because  it  is  a  stain  on  my  dear  papa's  mem- 
ory. It  is  undeserved — it  is  inexplicable  ;  but  it 
is  a  stain.  And  how  can  I,  his  daughter,  not 
think  of  it?" 

"  A  stain !"  said  Hilda,  after  a  thoughtful 
pause.  ' '  If  there  were  a  stain  on  such  a  name, 
1  can  well  imagine  that  you  would  feel  anguish. 
But  there  is  none.  How  can  there  be  ?  Think 
of  his  noble  life  spent  in  honor  in  the  service  of 
his  country !  Can  you  associate  any  stain  with 
such  a  life  ?" 

"He  was  the  noblest  of  men!"  interrupted 
Zillah,  veliemently. 

"Then  do  not  talk  of  a  stain,"  said  Hilda, 
calmly.  "As  to  Lord  Chetwynde,  he,  at  least, 
has  nothing  to  say.  To  him  General  Pomeroy 
was  such  a  friend  as  he  could  never  have  hoped 
for.  He  saved  Lord  Chetwynde  from  beggary 
and  ruin.  When  General  Pomeroy  first  came 
back  to  England  he  found  Lord  Chetwynde  a* 
the  last  extremity,  and  advanced  sixty  thousand 
pounds  to  help  him.  Think  of  that !  And  it's, 
true.  I  was  informed  of  it  on  good  authorit; 
Besides,  General  Pomeroy  did  more ;  for  he  in- 
trusted his  only  daughter  to  Lord  Chetwynd  ■ 

"  My  God !"  cried  Zillah  ;  "  what  are  you  ■ 
ing?  Do  you  not  know,  Hilda,  that  every  wi 
that  you  speak  is  a  stab  ?  What  do  you  mean  ? 
Do  you  dare  to  talk  as  if  my  papa  has  shut  the 
mouth  of  an  injured  friend  by  a  payment  of 
money?  Do  you  mean  me  to  think  that,  after 
dishonoring  his  friend,  he  has  sought  to  efface 
the  dishonor  by  gold  ?  My  God  !  you  will  drive 
me  mad.  You  make  my  papa,  and  Lord  Chet- 
wynde also,  sink  down  into  fathomless  depths 
of  infamy." 

"You  torture  my  words  into  a  meaning  dif- 
ferent from  what  I  mtended,"  said  Hilda,  quiet- 
ly. "I  merely  meatit  to  show  you  that  Lord 
Chetwynde's  obligations  to  General  Pomeroy 
were  so  vast  that  he  ought  not  even  to  suspect 
him,  no  matter  how  strong  the  proof." 

Zillah  waved  her  hands  with  a  gesture  of  de- 
spair. 

"No  matter  how  strong  the  proof!"  she  re- 
peated. "Ah!  There  it  is  again.  You  qui- 
etly assume  my  papa's  guilt  in  every  word.  You 
have  read  those  papers,  and  have  believed  every 
word." 

"You  are  very  unkind,  Zillah.  I  was  doing 
my  best  to  comfort  you." 

"Comfort!"  cried  Zillah,  in  indescribable 
tones. 

"Ah,  my  darling,  do  not  bo  croKs/'eaid  Hilda, 
twining  her  arms  around  Zillah's  neck.     "Yon 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


71 


know  I  loved  your  papa  only  less  than  you  did. 
He  was  a  father  to  me.  What  can  I  say?  You 
yourself  were  troubled  by  those  papers.  80  was 
I.  And  that  is  all  I  will  say.  I  will  not  speak 
of  them  again." 

And  here  Hilda  stopped,  and  went  about  the 
room  to  attend  to  her  duties  as  nurse.  Zillah 
stood,  with  her  mind  full  of  strange,  conflicting 
feelings.  The  hints  wliich  Hilda  had  given  sank 
deep  into  her  soul.  What  did  tliey  mean  ?  Their 
frightful  meaning  stood  revealed  full  before  her 
in  all  its  abhorrent  reality. 

Reviewing  those  papers  by  the  light  of  Hilda's 
dark  interpretation,  she  saw  what  they  involved. 
This,  then,  was  the  cause  of  her  marriage.  Her 
fatiier  had  tried  to  atone  for  the  past.  He  had 
made  Lord  Chetwynde  rich  to  pay  for  the  dis- 
honor tliat  he  had  suffered.  He  had  stolen  away 
the  wife,  and  given  a  daughter  in  her  place.  Slie, 
tiicn,  had  been  the  medium  of  this  frightful  at- 
tempt at  readjustment,  this  atonement  for  wrongs 
that  could  never  be  atoned  for.  Hilda's  mean- 
ing made  this  the  only  conceivable  cause  for  that 
premature  engagement,  that  hurried  marriage  by 
tiie  death-bed.  And  could  there  be  any  other 
reason  ?  1  )id  it  not  look  like  tiie  act  of  a  re- 
morseful sinner,  anxious  to  finish  his  expiation, 
and  make  amends  for  crime  before  meeting  his 
Judge  in  the  otiier .world  to  which  he  was  hast- 
ening? The  General  liad  oflTered  up  every  tiling 
to  expiate  his  crime — he  had  given  Iiis  fortune — 
he  had  sacrificed  his  daughter.  What  other 
cause  could  possibly  have  moved  him  to  enforce 
the  hideous  mockery  of  that  ghastly,  that  un- 
paralleled marriogc  ? 

Beneath  such  intolerable  thoughts  as  these, 
Zillah's  brain  whirled.  She  could  not  avoid 
them.  Affection,  loyalty,  honor — all  bade  her 
trust  in  her  father;  the  remembrance  of  his  no- 
ble character,  of  his  stainless  life,  his  pure  and 
gentle  nature,  all  recurred.  In  vain.  (Still  the 
dark  suspicion  insidiously  conveyed  by  Hilda 
would  obtrude ;  and,  indeed,  under  such  cir- 
cumstances, Zillah  would  have  been  more  than 
human  if  they  had  not  come  forth  before  her. 
As  it  was,  she  was  only  human  and  young  and 
inexperienced.  Dark  days  and  bitter  nights 
were  before  her,  but  among  all  none  were  more 
dark  and  bitter  than  this. 


CHAPTER  XXI. 

A    DARK     COMMISSION. 

These  amateur  nurses  who  had  gathered 
about  the  Earl  differed  very  much,  as  may  be 
supposed,  in  their  individual  capacities.  As  for 
Mrs.  Hart,  she  was  very  quickly  put  out  of  the 
way.  The  stroke  which  had  prostrated  her,  at 
the  outset,  did  not  seem  to  be  one  from  which 
she  could  very  readily  recover.  The  only  thing 
which  she  did  was  to  totter  to  the  room  early 
in  the  morning,  so  as  to  find  out  how  the  Earl 
was,  and  then  to  totter  back  again  until  the  next 
morning.  Mrs.  Hart  thus  was  incapable ;  and 
Zillah  was  not  very  much  better.  Since  her  con- 
versation with  Hilda  there  were  thoughts  in  her 
mind  so  new,  so  diflferent  from  any  which  she 
had  ever  had  before,  and  so  frightful  in  their  im- 
port, that  they  changed  all  her  nature.  She  be- 
came melancholy,  self-absorbed,  and  preoccu- 


pied.    Silent  and  distrait,  she  wandered  about 
the  Earl's  room  aimlessly,  and  did  not  seem  able 
to  give  to  him  that  close  and  undivided  atten- 
tion which  he  needed.     Hilda  found  it  necessary 
to  reproach  her  several  times  in  her  usual  affec- 
tionate way ;   and  Zillah  tried,  after  each  re- 
proach, to  rouse  herself  fi'om  her  melancholy, 
so  as  to  do  better  the  next  time.     Yet,  the  next 
time  she  did  just  as  badly;  and,  on  the  whole,  ac- 
quitted herself  but  poorly  of  her  responsible  task, 
i      And  thus  it  happened  that  Hilda  was  obliged 
I  to  assume  the  supreme  responsibility.     The  oth- 
ers had  grown  more  than  ever  useless,  and  she, 
!  accordingly,  grew  more  than  ever  necessary.    To 
I  this  task  she  devoted  herself  with  that  assiduity 
and  ])atience  for  which  she  was  distinguished. 
1  The  constant  loss  of  sleep,  and  the  incessant 
I  end  weary  vigils  which  she  was  forced  to  main- 
j  tain,  seemed  to  have  but  little  effect  upon  her 
elastic  and  energetic  nature.     Zillah,  in  spite  of 
I  her  preoccupation,  could  not  help  seeing  that 
Hilda  was  doing  nearly  all  the  work,  and  remon- 
'  strated  with  her  accordingly.     But  to  her  earn- 
est remonstrances  Hilda  turned  a  deaf  ear. 

"You  see,  dear,"  said  she,  "there  is  no  one 
but  me.  Mrs.  Hart  is  herself  in  need  of  a  nurse, 
and  you  are  no  better  than  a  baby,  so  how  can 
I  help  watching  poor  dear  Lord  Chetwynde  ?" 

"But  you  will  wear  yourself  out,"  persisted 
Zillah. 

"Oh,  we  will  wait  till  I  begin  to  show  signs 
of  weariness,"  said  Hilda,  in  a  sprightly  tone. 
"  At  present,  1  feel  able  to  spend  a  great  many 
days  and  nights  here." 

Indeed,  to  all  her  remonstrances  Hilda  was 
quite  inaccessible,  and  it  remained  for  Zillah  to 
see  her  friend  spend  most  of  her  time  in  that 
sick-room,  the  ruling  spirit,  while  she  was  com- 
paratively useless.  She  could  only  feel  grati- 
tude for  so  much  kindness,  and  express  that 
gratitude  whenever  any  occasion  arose.  While 
Hilda  was  regardless  of  Zillah's  remonstrances, 
she  was  equally  so  of  the  doctor's  warnings. 
That  functionary  did  not  wish  to  see  his  best 
nurse  wear  herself  out,  and  warned  her  frequent- 
ly, but  with  no  effect  whatever.  Hilda's  self- 
sacrificing  zeal  was  irrepressible  and  invincible. 

While  Hilda  was  thus  devoting  herself  to  the  ^ 
Earl  with  such  tireless  patience,  and  exciting 
the  wonder  and  gratitude  of  all  in  that  little 
household  by  her  admirable  self-devotion,  there 
was  another  who  watched  the  progress  of  events 
with  perfect  calmness,  yet  with  deep  anxiety. 
Gualtier  was  not  able  now  to  give  his  music 
lessons,  yet,  although  he  no  longc  could  gaia 
admission  to  the  inmates  of  Castle  Chetwynde, 
his  anxiety  about  the  Earl  was  a  sufficient  ex- 
cuse for  calling  every  day  to  inquire  about  his 
health.  On  those  inquiries  he  not  only  heard 
about  the  Earl,  but  also  about  all  the  others, 
and  more  particularly  about  Hilda.  He  culti- 
vated an  acquaintance  with  the  doctor,  who, 
though  generally  disposed  to  stand  on  his  dig- 
nity tow«*rd  musicians,  seemed  to  think  that 
Gualtier  had  gained  from  the  Earl's  patronage 
a  higher  title  to  l)e  noticed  than  any  which  hit 
art  could  give.  Besides,  the  good  doctor  knew 
that  Gualtier  was  constantly  at  the  Castle,  and 
natiu'ally  wished  to  avail  himself  of  so  good  an 
opportunity  of  finding  out  all  about  the  internal 
life  of  this  noble  but  secluded  family.  Gualtier 
humored  him  to  the  fullest  extent,  and  with  a 


n 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


great  appearance  of  frankness  told  him  as  much 
ng  he  tlioiiglu  proper,  and  no  more ;  in  return 
for  which  confidence  he  received  the  fullest  in- 
formiition  as  to  the  present  condition  of  the 
hoiiseliold.  What  surprised  Gualtier  most  was 
Hilda's  devotion.  He  hud  not  anticipated  it. 
It  was  real,  yet  what  could  he  her  motive?  Ii 
his  own  language — What  game  was  the  little 
thing  up  to  ?  This  was  the  (juestion  whic!'  he 
incessantly  asked  himself,  without  being  able  to 
answer  it.  His  re»j>ect  for  her  genius  was  too 
great  to  allow  him  for  one  moment  to  suppose 
that  it  was  possible  for  her  to  act  without  some 
dee])  motive.  Her  immolation  of  self,  her  assi- 
duity, her  tenderness,  her  skill,  all  seemed  to  this 
man  so  many  elements  in  the  game  which  she 
was  playing.  And  for  all  these  things  he  only 
admired  her  the  more  fervently.  That  she  would 
succeed  he  never  for  a  moment  doubted  ;  though 
what  it  was  that  she  might  be  aiming  at,  and 
what  it  was  that  her  success  might  involve,  were 
ingcrutable  mysteries. 

What  game  is  the  little  thing  up  to?  he  asked 
himself,  aftectionately,  and  with  tender  empha- 
sis. What  game?  And  this  became  the  one 
idea  of  his  mind.  Little  else  were  his  thoughts 
engaged  in,  except  an  attempt  to  fathom  the 
depths  of  Hilda's  design.  Hut  he  was  biiffled. 
What  that  desir  involved  could  hardly  have 
been  discove*''  ly  liim.  Often  and  often  he 
wished  that  '  uld  look  into  that  sick-cham- 
ber to  see  w'.iat  the  "little  thing  was  up  to." 
Yet,  could  he  have  looked  into  that  chami)er,  he 
would  have  seen  nothing  that  could  have  en- 
lightened him.  He  would  have  seen  a  slender, 
graceful  form,  moving  lightly  about  the  room, 
now  stooping  over  the  form  of  the  sick  man  to 
adjust  or  to  smooth  his  pillow,  now  watchfully 
and  warily  administering  the  medicine  which 
stood  near  the  bed.  Hilda  was  not  one  who 
would  leave  any  thing  to  be  discovered,  even  by 
those  who  might  choose  to  lurk  in  ambush  and 
spy  at  her  through  a  keyhole. 

But  though  Hilda's  plans  were  for  some  time 
impenetrable,  there  came  at  last  an  opportunity 
when  he  was  furnished  with  light  sufficient  to  re- 
veal them — a  lurid  light  which  made  known  to 
him  possibilities  in  her  which  he  had  certainly 
not  suspected  before. 

One  day,  on  visiting  Chetwynde  Castle,  he 
found  her  in  the  chief  parlor.  He  thought  that 
she  had  come  there  ))urposely  in  order  to  see 
him ;  and  he  was  not  disappointed.  After  a  few 
questions  as  to  the  Earls  health,  she  excused 
herself,  and  said  that  she  must  hurry  back  to  his 
room;  but,  as  she  turned  to  go,  she  slipped  a 
piece  of  paper  into  his  hand,  as  she  had  done 
once  before.     On  it  ho  saw  the  following  words : 

"  He  in  the  West  Avenue,  at  the  former  place, 
at  three  o'clock." 

Gualtier  wandered  nbout  in  a  state  of  feverish 
impatience  till  the  appointed  hour,  marveling 
what  the  purpose  might  be  which  had  induced 
Hilda  to  seek  the  interview.  He  felt  that  the  pur- 
pose must  be  of  far-reaching  importance  which 
would  lead  her  to  seek  him  at  such  a  time ;  but 
what  it  was  he  tried  in  vain  to  conjecture. 

At  last  the  hour  came,  and  (iualtier,  who  had 
been  waiting  so  long,  was  rewarded  by  the  sight 
of  Hilda.  She  was  as  calm  as  usual,  but  greeted 
him  with  greater  cordiality  than  she  was  in  the 
h:ihit  of  showing.    !She  also  evinced  greater  cau- 


tion than  even  on  the  former  occasion,  and  led 
the  way  to  a  more  lonely  spot,  and  looked  nil 
around  most  carefidly,  so  as  to  guard  against  tlio 
possibility  of  discovery.  When,  at  length,  she 
spoke,  it  was  in  a  low  and  guarded  voice. 

"1  am  so  worn  down  by  nursing,"  she  said, 
"  that  I  have  had  to  come  out  for  a  little  frc^h 
air.  But  I  would  not  leave  the  Earl  till  they 
absolutely  forced  me.  Such  is  my  devotion  to 
him  that  there  is  an  impression  abroad  ihrougli 
the  ('astle  that  I  will  not  survive  him." 

"  Survive  him  ?  You  speak  as  though  he  were 
doomed,"  said  Gualtier. 

"  He — is — very— low,"  said  Hilda,  in  a  solemn 
monotone. 

Gualtier  said  nothing,  but  regarded  her  in  si- 
lence for  some  time. 

"  What  was  the  cause  of  his  illness  ?"  he  asked 
at  length.  "  The  doctor  thinks  that  his  mind  is 
affected." 

"Eor  once,  something  like  the  truth  has  pen- 
etrated that  heavy  brain. " 

"Do  you  know  any  thing  that  can  have  hap- 
pened?" asked  Gualtier,  cautiously. 

"Yes;  a  sudden  shock.  Strange  to  sa)',  it 
was  administered  by  Mrs.  Molyneux." 

"Mrs.  Molyneux!" 

"Yes." 

"I  am  so  completely  out  of  your  sphere  that 
I  know  nothing  whatever  of  what  is  going  on. 
How  Mrs.  Molyneux  can  have  given  a  shock  to 
the  Earl  that  could  have  reduced  him  to  his  pres- 
ent state,  I  can  not  imagine." 

"Of  course  it  was  not  intentional.  She  hap- 
pened to  ask  the  Earl  about  something  which  re- 
vived old  memories  and  old  sorrows  in  a  very 
forcible  manner.  He  grew  excited — so  much  so, 
indeed,  that  he  fainted,  and,  in  fulling,  struck 
his  head.     That  is  the  whole  story. " 

"May  I  ask,"  said  Gualtier,  after  a  thought- 
ful pause,  "  if  Mrs.  Molyneux's  ill-fated  ques- 
tions had  any  reference  to  those  things  nbout 
which  we  have  spoken  together,  from  time  to 
time?" 

"They  had — and  a  very  close  one.  In  fact, 
they  arose  out  of  those  very  papers  which  we  have 
had  before  us." 

Gualtier  looked  at  Hilda,  as  she  said  this,  with 
the  closest  attention. 

"  It  happened,"  said  Hilda,  "  that  Mrs.  Moly- 
neux, on  her  last  visit  to  Pomeroy  Court,  was 
seized  with  a  fancy  to  examine  her  father's  desk. 
While  doing  so,  she  found  a  secret  drawer,  which, 
by  some  singular  accident,  had  been  left  started, 
and  a  little  loose — just  enough  to  attract  her  at- 
tention. This  she  opened,  and  in  it,  strange  to 
say,  she  found  that  very  cipher  which  I  have  told 
you  of.  A  key  accompanied  it,  by  which  she  was 
able  to  read  as  much  as  we  have  read  ;  and  there 
were  also  those  letters  with  which  you  are  famil- 
iar. She  took  them  to  her  raom,  shut  herself  up, 
and  studied  them  as  eagerly  as  ever  either  you  or 
I  did.  Slie  then  hurried  back  to  Chetwynde  Cas- 
tle, and  laid  every  thing  before  the  Earl.  Out  of 
this  arose  his  excitement  and  its  very  sad  results." 

"  I  did  not  know  that  there  were  sufficient  ma- 
terials for  accomplishing  so  much, "  said  Gualtier, 
cautiously. 

"  No ;  the  materials  were  not  abundant.  There 
was  the  cipher,  with  which  no  one  would  have 
su))po8ed  that  any  thing  could  be  done.  Then 
there  were  those  other  letters  which  lay  with  ^ 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


73 


in  the  dcRk,  which  corroborated  what  the  cipher 
seemed  to  say.  Out  of  this  has  suddenly  arisen 
ruin  and  anguish." 

"There  was  also  the  key,"  said  Gualtier,  in  a 
tone  uf  delicate  insinuation. 

"True,"  said  Hilda;  "had  the  key  not  been 
inclosed  with  the  pajMjrs,  she  could  not  have  un- 
derstood the  cipher,  or  made  any  thing  out  of 
the  letters." 

"  The  Karl  must  have  hclievcd  it  all." 

"He  never  doubted  for  an  instant.  By  the 
merest  chance,  I  happened  to  be  in  a  jdace  where 
I  saw  it  all,"  said  Hilda,  with  a  j)eculiur  empha- 
sis. "  I  thought  that  ho  would  reject  it  at  first, 
and  that  the  first  impulse  would  bo  to  scout  such 
a  charge.  IJut  mark  this" — and  her  voice  grew 
solemn — "there  must  have  been  some  knowl- 
edge in  his  mind  of  things  unknown  to  us,  or  else 
he  could  never  have  been  so  utterly  and  com- 
pletely overwhelmed.  It  was  a  blow  which  liter- 
ally crushed  him — in  mind  and  body." 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"And  you  think  he  can  not  survive  this?" 
asked  Gualtier. 

"No,"  said  Hilda,  in  a  very  strange,  slow 
voice,  "I  do  not  think — that — he — can — recov- 
er. Ho  is  old  and  feeble.  The  shock  was  great. 
His  mind  wanders,  also.  Ho  is  sinking  slowly, 
but  surely." 

She  paused,  and  looked  earnestly  at  Gualtier, 
who  returned  her  look  with  one  of  equal  earnest- 
ness. 

"  I  have  yet  to  tell  you  what  purpose  induced 
mo  to  appoint  this  meeting,"  said  she,  in  so 
strange  a  voice  that  Gualtier  started.  But  he 
said  not  a  word. 

Hilda,  who  was  standing  near  to  him,  drew 
nearer  still.  She  looked  nil  around,  with  a 
strange  light  in  her  eyes.  Then  she  turned  to 
him  again,  and  said,  in  a  low  whisper: 

"  I  want  you  to  get  me  something." 

Gualtier  looked  at  her  inquiringly,  but  in  si- 
lence.   His  eyes  seemed  to  ask  her,  "  What  is  it  ?" 

She  put  her  mouth  close  to  his  ear,  and  whis- 
pered something,  heard  only  by  him.  But  that 
low  whisper  was  never  forgotten.  His  face  turn- 
ed deathly  pale.  He  looked  away,  and  said  not 
a  word. 

"Good-hy,"  said  Hilda;  "I  am  going  now." 
She  held  out  her  hand.  He  grasjied  it.  At  that 
moment  their  eyes  met,  and  a  look  of  intelli- 
gence Hashed  between  them. 


CHAPTER  XX  n. 


THE  JUDAS  KISS. 


It  has  already  been  said  that  when  the  Earl 
rallied  a  little  so  as  to  recognize  Zillah,  all  his 
old  affection  was  exhibited,  and  the  temporary 
avei-sion  which  he  had  manifested  during  that 
eventful  time  when  he  had  seen  the  cipher  writing 
had  pas.>-ed  off  without  leaving  any  trace  of  its 
existence.  It  is  quite  likely  indeed  that  the 
whole  circumstance  had  been  utterly  oblitera- 
ted from  his  memory,  and  when  his  eyes  caught 
sight  of  Zillah  she  was  to  him  simj/ly  the  one 
whom  he  loved  next  best  to  (iuy.  His  brain 
was  in  such  a  state  that  his  faculties  seemed 
dulled,  and  his  memory  nearly  gone.  Had  he 
remcmhcrefl   that  scene  ho  would  either  have 


continued  to  regard  Zillah  with  horror,  or  else, 
if  afi'ection  had  triumphed  over  a  sense  of  injury, 
he  would  have  done  something  or  said  something 
in  his  more  lucid  intervals  to  assure  Zillah  of  his 
continued  love.  But  nothing  of  the  kind  oc- 
curred. Ho  clung  to  Zillah  like  a  child,  and 
the  few  faint  words  which  he  addressed  to  her 
simply  recognized  her  as  the  object  of  an  affec- 
tion which  had  never  met  with  ai\  interrui)tion. 
They  also  had  reference  to  tJuy,  os  to  whether 
she  had  written  to  him  yet,  ond  whether  any 
more  letters  had  been  received  from  him.  A 
letter,  which  came  during  the  illness,  she  tried 
to  read,  but  the  poor  weary  brain  of  the  sick 
man  could  not  follow  her.  She  had  to  tell  him 
in  a  few  general  terms  its  contents. 

For  some  weeks  she  had  hoped  that  the  Eavl 
would  recover,  and  therefore  dchned  sending 
the  Slid  news  to  Guy.  But  at  length  she 
could  no  longer  conceal  from  herself  tho  fact 
that  the  illness  would  be  long,  and  she  saw 
that  it  was  too  serious  to  allow  Guy  to  remain 
in  ignoronce.  She  longed  to  address  him  words 
of  condolence,  and  sympathized  deeply  with  him 
in  the  anxiety  which  she  knew  would  be  felt  by 
a  heart  so  affectionate  as  his. 

And  now  as  she  thought  of  writing  to  him  there 
came  to  her,  more  bitterly  than  ever,  the  thought 
of  her  false  position.  She  write !  She  could  not. 
It  was  Hilda  who  would  write.  Hilda  stood  be- 
tween her  and  the  one  whom  she  wished  to 
soothe.  In  sjiitc  of  her  warm  and  sisterly  af- 
fection for  her  friend,  and  her  boundless  trust  in 
her,  this  thought  now  sent  a  thiill  of  vexation 
through  her  ;  and  she  bitterly  lamented  the 
chain  of  events  by  which  she  had  been  placed 
in  sucli  a  position. ,  It  was  humiliating  and  gall- 
ing. But  coidd  she  not  yet  escape?  Might  she 
not  even  now  write  in  her  own  name  expliiiuing 
all  ?  No.  It  could  not  be — not  now,  for  what 
would  be  the  reception  of  such  explanations,  com- 
ing as  they  would  with  the  news  of  his  father's 
illness !  Would  he  treat  them  with  any  consid- 
eration whatever  ?  Would  not  his  anxiety  about 
his  father  lead  him  to  regard  them  with  an  im- 
])atient  disdain?  But  peihnps,  on  the  other 
liand,  he  might  feel  softened  and  accept  her 
explanation  readily,  without  giving  any  thought, 
to  the  strange  deceit  which  hud  been  jiracticed 
for  so  long  a  time.  This  gave  her  a  gleam  of 
hope ;  but  in  her  perplexity  she  could  not  decide, 
so  .she  sought  counsel  from  Hilda  as  ustuil.  Had 
Mrs.  Hart  being  in  the  possession  of  her  usual 
faculties  she  might  possibly  have  asked  her  ad- 
vice also ;  but,  as  it  was,  Hilda  was  the  only  one 
to  whom  she  could  turn, 

Hilda  listened  to  her  with  that  sweet  smile, 
and  that  loving  and  patient  consideration,  which 
she  always  gave  to  Zillah's  confidences  and  ap- 
peals. 

"Darling,"  said  she.  after  a  longand  thoughtful 
silence,  "I  understand  fully  the  perjilexity  which 
you  feel.  In  fact,  this  letter  ouo/it  to  come  from 
you,  and  from  you  only.  I'm  extremely  sorry  that 
I  ever  began  this.  I'm  sure  I  did  it  from  the  very 
beat  motives.  Who  could  ever  have  dreamed  that 
it  would  become  so  embarrassing?  And  now  I 
don't  know  what  to  do — that  is,  not  just  now." 

"Do  you  think  he  would  bo  angry  at  tho  de- 
ceit?" 

"Do  you  yourself  think  so?"'  asked  Hildo  in 
reply. 


74 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


HILDA   W1UTK8  TO   GUY   MOLYNEDX. 


"Why,  that  is  what  T  am  afraid  of;  but  then 
— isn't  it  possible  that  he  might  be — softened, 
you  know— by  anxiety  ?" 

"  People  don't  get  softened  by  anxiety.  They 
get  impatient,  angry  with  the  world  and  with 
Providence.  Hut  the  best  way  to  judge  is  to 
put  yourself  in  his  situation.  Suppose  you  were 
in  India,  and  a  letter  was  written  to  you  by  your 
wife — or  your  hu.sband,  I  suppose  I  should  say — 
telling  you  that  your  father  was  extremely  ill,  and 
that  he  himself  had  been  deceiving  you  for  some 
years.  The  writing  would  be  strange — quite  un- 
familiar; the  story  would  be  almost  incredible  ; 
^you  wouldn't  know  what  to  think.  You'd  be 
deeply  anxious,  and  yet  half  believe  that  some 
one  was  practicing  a  cruel  jest  on  you.  For  my 
part,  if  I  had  an  ex])lanation  to  make  I  would 
wait  for  a  time  of  prosperity  and  happiness. 
Misfortune  makes  people  so  bitter. " 

"That  is  the  very  thing  that  I'm  afraid  of," 
said  Zillah,  despairingly,  "And — oh  dear,  what 
shaUldor' 

'•  You  must  do  one  thing  certainly,  and  that 
18  write  him  about  his  father.  You  yourself 
must  do  it,  darling." 

"  Why,  what  do  you  mean  ?  You  were  just 
now  showing  me  that  this  was  the  very  thing 
which  I  could  not  do." 

"  You  misunderstand  me,"  said  Hilda,  with  a 
smile.  "Why,  do  you  really  mean  to  say  that 
you  do  not  see  how  easy  it  is  to  get  out  of  this 
difficulty  ?" 

"  Easy  !     It  seems  to  me  a  terrible  one." 

"  Why,  my  darling  child,  don't  you  see  that 
after  you  write  your  letter  I  can  copy  it?  You 
surely  have  nothing  so  very  private  to  say  that  you 
will  oijject  to  that.  I  suppose  all  that  you  want 
to  do  is  to  break  the  news  to  him  as  gently  and 


tenderly  as  possible.  You  don't  want  to  indulge 
in  expressions  of  ])erson»l  affection,  of  course." 

"Oh,  my  dearest  Hilda!"  cried  Zillah,  over- 
joyed. ' '  What  an  owl  I  am  not  to  have  thought 
of  that !  It  meets  the  whole  difficulty.  I  write 
— you  copy  it — and  it  will  be  my  letter  after  all. 
How  I  could  have  been  so  stupid  I  do  not  see. 
Bu?  I'm  always  so.  As  to  any  private  confi- 
dences, there  is  no  danger  of  any  thing  of  that 
kind  taking  place  between  people  who  are  so 
very  peculiarly  situated  as  we  are." 

"I  suppose  not,"  said  Hilda,  with  a  smile. 

"But  it's  such  a  bore  to  copy  letters." 

"  My  darling,  can  any  thing  be  a  trouble  that 
I  do  for  you  ?  Besides,  you  know  how  very  fast 
I  write." 

"  You  are  always  so  kind,"  said  Zillah,  as  she 
kissed  her  friend  fondly  and  tenderly.  "  I  wish 
I  could  do  something  for  you ;  but — poor  me! — 
I  don't  seem  able  to  do  any  thing  for  any  body — 
not  even  for  the  dear  old  Earl.  What  wouldn't 
I  give  to  be  like  you  I" 

"  You  are  far  better  as  yon  are,  darling,"  said 
Hilda,  with  perhaps  a  double  meaning  in  her 
words.  "  But  now  go  and  write  the  letter, 
and  bring  it  to  me,  and  I  will  copy  it  as  fast 
as  I  can,  and  send  it  to  the  post." 

Under  these  circumstances  that  letter  was 
written. 

The  Earl  lingered  on  in  a  low  stage,  with 
scarcely  any  symptoms  of  improvement.  At 
first,  indeed,  there  was  a  time  when  he  had 
seemed  better,  but  that  passed  away.  The  re- 
lapse sorely  puzzled  the  doctor.  If  he  had  not 
been  in  such  good  hands  he  might  have  suspected 
the  nurse  of  neglect,  but  that  was  the  last  thing 
that  he  could  have  thought  of  Hilda.  Indeed, 
Hilda  had  been  so  fearful  of  the  Earl's  being  neg- 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


n 


lected  that  she  had,  for  his  sake,  assiirned  tlicse 
ull-ctiKruHsiiin!  cures.  JSingularly  enough,  how- 
ever, it  was  HJnce  her  attHumption  of  the  chief 
duties  of  nurHing  him  that  the  Karl  had  relapsed. 
The  doctor  felt  that  nothing  better  in  the  wav 
of  nur.sing  him  eoiild  be  conceived  of.  Zilluh 
thought  tiiat  if  it  hud  not  been  for  Hilda  the  Karl 
would  scarcely  have  been  alive.  As  for  Hilda 
herself,  she  could  only  meekly  deprecate  the  doc- 
tor's )>riiiseH,  and  sigh  to  think  that  such  care  as 
hers  should  prove  so  unavailing. 

The  Kiirl's  case  was,  indeed,  a  mygterious  one. 
After  making  every  allowance  for  the  shock  which 
ho  migiit  have  experienced,  and  after  lav'ng  all 
possible  stress  upon  that  blow  on  his  het  J  which 
lie  had  sutt'ered  when  falling  forward,  it  still  was 
a  subject  of  wonder  to  the  doctor  why  ho  should 
not  recover.  Hilda  had  told  him  in  general 
terms,  and  with  her  usual  delicacy,  of  the  cause 
of  the  Karl's  illness,  so  that  the  doctor  knew  that 
it  arose  from  mental  trouble,  and  not  from  phys- 
ical ailment.  Yet,  even  under  these  circum- 
stances, he  was  puzzled  at  the  complete  prostra- 
tion of  the  Karl,  and  at  the  adverse  symptoms 
which  u|)peared  as  time  passed  on. 

The  Kiirl  slept  most  of  the  time.  He  was  in 
a  kind  of  stupor.  This  puzzled  the  doc^tor  ex- 
tremely. The  remedies  which  ho  administered 
seemed  not  to  have  their  legitimate  ett'ect.  In  fact 
they  seemed  to  have  no  eifect,  nnd  the  most  power- 
ful drugs  proved  useless  in  this  mysterious  case. 

"It  must  be  the  mind,"  said  the  doctor  to 
himself,  as  ho  rode  homo  one  day  after  finding 
the  Karl  in  a  lower  state  than  usual.  "  It  must 
be  the  mind ;  and  may  the  devil  take  the  mind, 
for  hang  me  if  I  can  ever  make  head  or  tail  of  it !"' 

Yet  on  the  night  when  the  doctor  soliloquized 
in  this  fashion  a  change  had  come  over  the  Earl 
which  might  have  been  sujiposed  to  bo  for  the 
better.  He  was  exceedingly  weak,  so  weak,  in- 
deed, that  it  was  only  with  a  great  effort  that  he 
could  move  his  hand ;  but  he  seemed  to  be  more 
sensible  than  usual.  That  "mind"  which  the 
doctor  cursed  .seemed  to  have  resumed  something 
of  its  former  functions.  He  asked  various  ques- 
tions ;  and,  among  others,  he  wished  to  hear 
Guy's  livst  letter.  T'his  Hilda  promised  he  should 
hear  on  the  morrow.  Zillah  was  there  at  the 
time,  and  the  Karl  cost  un  appealing  glance  to- 
ward her;  but  such  was  her  confidence  in  Hilda 
that  she  did  not  dream  of  doing  any  thing  in  op- 
])ositi<)n  to  her  decision.  So  she  shook  her  head, 
and  bending  over  the  Earl,  she  kissed  him,  and 
said,  "  T'o-morrow. " 

The  Isarl,  by  a  great  effort,  reached  up  his 
thin,  feeble  hand  and  took  hers. 

"  You  will  not  leave  me'i'"'  he  murmured. 

"  Certainly  not,  if  you  want  me  to  stay,"  said 
Zillah.  ^ 

The  Earl,  by  a  still  greiter  effort,  dragged  her 
down  nearer  to  him. 

"  Don't  leave  me  with  her,"  he  whispered. 

Zillah  started  at  the  tone  of  his  voice.  It  was 
a  tone  of  fear. 

"  What  is  it  that  he  says?"  asked  Hildo,  in  a 
sweet  voice. 

The  Earl  frowned.  Zillah  did  not  see  it,  how- 
ever. She  looked  back  to  Hilda  and  whispered, 
"He  wants  me  to  stay  with  him." 

"  Poor  dear !"  said  Hilda.  "  Well,  tell  him 
that  you  will.  It  is  a  whim.  He  loves  you,  you 
know.     Tell  him  that  you'll  stay." 


And  Zillah  stooped  down  and  told  tho  Earl 
that  she  would  stay. 

There  was  trouble  in  the  Earl's  face.  He  lay 
silent  and  motionless,  with  his  eves  fixed  upon 
Zillah.  Something  there  was  in  his  eyes  which 
expressed  such  mute  appeal  that  Zillah  wondered 
what  it  might  be.  She  went  over  to  him  and  sat 
by  his  side.  He  feebly  reached  out  his  thin 
hand.  Zillah  took  it  and  held  it  in  both  of  hers, 
kissing  him  as  she  did  so. 

"You  will  not  leave  me?"  he  whispered. 

"No,  dear  father." 

A  faint  pressure  of  her  hn  was  the  Earl's 
response,  and  a  faint  smile  oi  pleasure  hovered 
over  his  thin  lips. 

"Have  you  written  to  Guy?" ho  nskcd  again. 

"  Yes.  1  have  written  for  liim  to  come  home," 
said  Zillah,  who  meant  that  Hilda  had  written  in 
her  namo  ;  but,  in  her  mind,  it  was  all  the  same. 

l"he  Earl  drew  a  deep  sigh.  There  was  trou- 
ble in  his  face.  Zillah  marked  it,  Ixit  supposed 
that  he  was  anxious  about  that  son  who  was  never 
ab.sent  from  his  thoughts.  She  did  not  attempt 
to  soothe  his  mind  in  any  way.  He  was  not  able 
to  keep  up  a  conversation.  Nor  did  she  notice  that 
the  j)res8ure  on  her  hand  was  stronger  whenever 
Hilda,  with  her  light,  stealthy  step,  caiue  near; 
nor  did  she  see  the  fcur  that  was  in  his  face  as 
his  eyes  rested  ujion  her. 

The  Karl  drew  Zillah  faintly  toward  him.  She 
bent  down  over  him. 

"  Send  her  awav,"  said  he,  in  a  low  whisper. 

"  Who  ?     Hilda  ?"  asked  Zillah,  in  wonder. 

"  Yes.     You  nurse  me — t/on  stay  with  me." 

Zillah  at  once  arose.  "Hilda,"  said  she,  "ho 
wants  me  to  stay  with  him  to-night.  I  suppose 
he  thinks  J  give  up  too  much  to  you,  and  neglect 
him.  Oh  dear,  I  only  wish  I  was  such  a  nurse 
as  you !  But,  since  he  wishes  it,  I  will  stay  to- 
night; and  if  there  is  any  trouble  I  will  call  you." 

"  But,  my  poor  child,"  said  Hilda,  sweetly, 
"you  have  been  here  all  day." 

"Oh,  well,  it  is  his  wish,  and  I  will  stay  heve 
all  night." 

Hilda  remonstrated  a  little;  but,  finding  that 
Zillah  was  determined,  she  retiied,  and  Zilluh 
pussed  all  that  night  with  the  Karl.  He  was  un- 
ea.sy.  A  terror  seemed  to  be  over  him.  He  in- 
sisted on  holding  Zilluh's  hand.  At  times  he 
would  start  and  look  fearfully  around.  Was  it 
I  lilda  whom  he  feared  ?  Whatever  his  fear  was, 
he  said  nothing ;  but  after  each  start  he  would 
look  eagerly  up  at  Zillah,  and  press  her  hand 
faintly.  And  Zillali  thought  it  was  simply  the 
disorder  of  his  nervous  system,  or,  perhaps,  tho 
eft'ect  of  tho  medicines  which  he  had  taken.  As 
to  those  medicines,  she  was  most  carcfid  and 
most  regular  in  administering  them.  Indeed, 
her  very  anxiety  about  these  interfered  with  that 
watchfulness  about  the  Karl  himself  which  was 
tho  chief  requisite.  Fidly  conscious  that  she  was 
painfully  irregular  and  unmethodical,  Zillah 
gave  her  chief  thought  to  the  passage  of  the 
hours,  so  that  every  medicine  should  be  given  at 
the  right  time. 

It  was  a  long  night,  but  morning  came  at  last, 
and  with  it  came  Hilda,  calm,  refreshed,  affec- 
tionate, and  sweet. 

"How  has  he  been,  darling?"  she  asked. 

"Quiet,"  said  Zillah,  wearily. 

"That's  right;  and  now,  my  dearest,  gooff' 
and  get  some  rest.     You  must  bo  very  tired." 


76 


THE  nUYPTOGRAM. 


!• 


So  Zilliih  went  off,  and  Hilda  remained  with 
the  Eail. 

Day  was  just  dawning  when  Zillah  left  the 
I'-arl's  room.  Siie  stooped  over  him  and  liissed 
him.  Overcome  by  fatigue,  she  did  not  thinic 
much  of  the  earnest,  wistful  gaze  whicli  caught 
her  eyes.  Was  it  not  the  same  look  which  he 
had  fixed  on  her  frequently  before  ? 

The  Earl  again  drew  her  down  as  she  clasped 
his  hand.     She  stooped  over  iiim. 

"  I'm  afraid  of  her"  he  said,  in  a  low  whisper. 
".<end  Mrs.  Hart." 

Mrs.  Hart?  The  Earl  did  not  seem  to  know 
that  she  wi  •  ill.  No  doubt  his  mind  was  wan- 
dering. So  Zillah  thought,  and  the  idea  was 
natural.  (She  thought  she  would  humor  tlie  de- 
lirious fancy.  So  she  promised  to  send  Mrs. 
Hart. 

"What  did  ho  say?"  asked  Hilda,  following 
Zillah  out.  Zillah  told  her  according  to  her  own 
idea. 

"Oh,  it's  only  his  delirium,"  said  Hilda. 
"  He'll  take  me  for  you  when  I  go  back.  Don't 
let  it  trouble  you.  You  might  send  Mathilde  if 
you  feel  afraid ;  but  I  hardly  think  that  Mtt- 
thilde  would  be  so  nsefid  here  as  I." 

"/  afraid?    My  dear  Hilda,  can  I  take  his 


poor  delirious  fancy  in  earnest  ?  Send  Mathilde  ? 
I  should  hardly  exjjcct  to  s-ee  him  alive  again." 

"  Alive  again !"  said  Hilda,  with  a  singular  in- 
tonation. 

"  Yes;  Mathilde  is  an  excellent  maid,  but  in 
a  sick-room  she  is  as  heljiless  as  a  child.  She  is 
far  worse  than  I  am.  Do  we  ever  venture  to 
leave  him  alone  with  her?" 

"  Never  mind.  Do  you  go  to  sleep,  darling, 
and  sweet  dreams  to  you." 

They  kissed,  and  Zillah  went  to  her  chamber. 

It  was  about  dawn,  and  the  morning  twilight 
but  dimly  illumined  the  hall.  The  Karl's  room 
was  dark,  and  the  faint  night  light  made  objects 
only  indistinctly  perceptible.  The  Ivirl's  white 
face  was  turned  toward  the  door  as  Hilda  en- 
tered, with  imploring,  wistful  expectancy  upon 
it.  As  he  caught  sight  of  Hilda  the  expression 
turned  to  one  of  fear — that  same  fear  which  Zil- 
lah had  seen  upon  it.  What  did  he  fear  ?  What 
WHS  it  that  was  upon  his  mind  ?  What  fearful 
thought  threw  its  shadow  over  his  soul  ? 

Hilda  looked  at  him  for  a  long  time  in  silence, 
her  face  calm  and  impas.sive,  her  eyes  intent  upon 
him.  The  Earl  looked  back  upon  her  with  un- 
changed fear — looking  back  thus  out  of  his  weak- 
ness and  helplesBness,  with  a  fear  that  seemed  in- 


TIIK  {  RYl'TOGUAM. 


77 


teriNiflcd  tiy  the  ronHcioUHiinfift  of  that  wcnkneRS. 
Kut  IlildaV  I'licc  itol'teiicU  not ;  no  n\c.am  of  tcn- 
ileincHH  iiiitiKiitcd  the  hard  histru  of  her  uyuit; 
hur  oxproNsiciii  lositeiu'd  not  front  its  8ct  purpoHO. 
'I'he  Kiirl  miid  not  one  word.  It  was  not  to  her 
that  ho  would  utter  tlio  fear  that  waH  in  him. 
/ilhili  had  |ii°onii.si-d  to  Kund  Mrn.  Ilart.  V,  hen 
woidd  Mrs.  Ilnrt  forne?  WouM  hIio  ever  'omo, 
or  woidd  slio  never  come?  lie  h)oi<ed  away 
from  Hilda  feverishly,  anxiously,  to  the  doy; 
he  Htniined  his  cars  to  listen  for  footHte)is.  lint 
no  footHtepH  liroko  iho  deep  stillness  that  reixned 
throuKJi  the  vast  house,  where  all  slept  except 
these  two  who  faced  each  other  in  the  sick-room. 

There  was  a  clock  at  the  end  of  the  corridor 
outside,  whose  ticking  sounded  dull  and  mutHed 
from  the  distance,  yet  it  penetrated,  with  clear, 
sharp  viliratioiis,  to  the  hrain  of  the  sick  man. 
And  seemed  to  him,  in  the  gathering  excitement 
of  this  fearfid  hour,  to  grow  louder  and  louder, 
till  each  tick  sounded  to  his  sharpened  sense  like 
the  vihrations  of  a  bell,  and  seemed  to  ho  the  fu- 
neral knell  of  his  destiny  ;  sounding  thus  to  his 
ears,  solemnly,  fatefidly,  hodingly  ;  pealing  forth 
thus  with  every  sound  the  announcement  that 
second  after  second  out  of  those  few  minutes  of 
time  which  were  still  left  him  had  jjassed  away 
from  him  forever.  Kach  one  of  those  seconds 
wa»  prolonged  to  his  excited  sense  to  the  ilura- 
tion  of  an  hour.  After  each  stroke  he  listened 
for  the  next,  dreading  to  hear  it,  yot  awaiting  it, 
nnil  all  the  while  feeling  upon  hitn  the  eyes  of 
one  of  whom  he  was  to  bo  the  helpless,  voiceless 
victim. 

There  had  been  but  a  few  minutes  since  Zil- 
lali  left,  but  they  seemed  like  long  terms  of  du- 
ration to  the  man  who  watched  and  feared.  Zil- 
lali  had  gone,  and  would  not  returti.  Would 
Mrs.  Hart  ever  come?  Oh,  could  Mrs.  Hurt 
have  known  that  this  man,  of  all  living  beings, 
was  thus  watching  and  hoping  for  her,  and  that 
to  this  man  of  all  others  her  i)re8ence  would  have 
given  a  heavenly  peace  and  calm!  If  she  could 
but  have  known  this  as  it  was  then  it  would 
have  roused  her  evc'^  from  the  bed  of  death,  and 
brought  her  to  his  side  though  it  were  but  to  die 
at  the  first  sight  of  him.  Hut  Mrs.  Hart  came 
not.  !She  knew  nothing  of  any  wish  for  her.  In 
her  own  extreme  ])rostration  she  had  found,  after 
a  wakeful  night,  a  little  blessed  sleep,  and  the 
watcher  watched  in  vain. 

The  clock  tolled  on. 

Hilda  looked  out  through  the  door.  She  turn- 
ed and  went  out  into  the  hall.  She  came  back 
and  looked  around  the  room.  She  went  to  the 
window  and  looked  out.  The  twilight  was  fad- 
ing. '^h^  gloom  was  lessening  from  around  the 
dim  groves  and  shadowy  trees.  Morning  was 
coming.  She  went  back  into  the  room,  and 
once  more  into  the  hall.  There  she  stood  and 
listened.  The  Earl  followed  her  with  his  eyes 
— eyes  that  were  full  of  awful  expectation. 

Hilda  came  back.  The  Earl  summoned  all 
his  strength,  and  uttered  a  faint  cry.  Hilda 
walked  up  to  him ;  she  stooped  down  over  him. 
The  Earl  uttered  another  cry. 

Hilda  paused.  Then  she  stooped  down  and 
kissed  his  forehead. 

The  Earl  gasped.  One  word  came  hissing 
forth— 

"Judas:' 


CHAI'TRH  XXIII. 

THK    liOtrHK    (IV    MUUKNING. 

/ii.i.AH  had  scarcely  fallen  asleep  when  a  shiill 
jry  roused  her.  ^he  started  up.  Hilda  Btooii 
Iiy  her  side  with  wild  excitement  in  her  usiuiliy 
ini|iassive  face.  A  cold  thrill  ran  ihroiigh  Zi!- 
lah's  frame.  To  see  Hilda  in  any  exriicmciit 
was  an  unknown  thing  to  her;  but  now  this  ex- 
citement was  not  concealed. 

"  Oh,  my  darling!  my  darling!"  she  cried. 
"What?    what?"   Zillah    almost    screametl. 
"What  is  it?    What  has  hajipened  ?"    Eear  told 
her.    .She  knew  what  had  happeiuul.    One  thing, 
and  one  only,  could  account  for  this. 

"  He's  gone  I  It's  over!  He's  gone  !  He's 
gone!  Oh,  darling!  How  can  I  tell  it?  And 
so  sudden  !  Oh,  calm  yourself:  And  Hilda 
flung  her  arms  about  Zillah,  and  groaned. 

Zillah's  heart  seemed  to  stand  still.  She  flung 
oil'  Hilda's  arms,  she  tore  her.-elf  away,  and 
rushed  to  the  Earl's  room.  Such  a  siulden  thing 
as  this — could  it  be?    (ione!    And  it  was  only  a 

!  few  moments  since  she  had  seen  his  last  glance, 
and  heard  his  last  words. 

Yes  ;  it  was  indeed  so.  There,  as  she  entered 
that  room,  where  now  the  rays  of  morning  en- 
tered, she  saw  the  form  of  her  friend — that  friend 
whom  she  called  father,  and  loved  as  such.  Hut 
the  white  face  was  no  longer  turned  to  greet  her ; 
the  eyes  did  not  seek  hers,  nor  could  that  cold 

I  hand  ever  again  return  the   pressure  of  hers. 

!  White  as  marble  was  that  face  now,  still  and  set 
in  the  flxedness  of  death ;  cold  as  marble  was 
now  that  hand  which  hers  clasped  in  that  flrst 
fren/.y  of  grief  and  horror ;  cold  as  marble  and 
as  lifeless.     Never  again — never  again  might  she 

'  hold  communo  witli  the  friend  who  now  was 
numbered  with  the  dead. 

I  She  sat  in  that  room  stricken  into  dumlmess 
by  the  shock  of  this  sudden  calamity.  Time 
passed.  The  awful  news  flashed  through  the 
house.  The  servants  heard  it,  and  came  silent 
and  awe-struck  to  the  room  ;  but  when  'hey  saw 
the  white  face,  and  the  mourner  by  the  bedside, 
they  stood  still,  nor  did  they  dare  to  cross  the 
threshold.  Suddenly,  while  the  little  group  of 
servants  stood  there  in  that  doorway,  with  the 
reverence  which  is  always  felt  for  death  and  for 
sorrow,  there  came  one  who  forced  her  way 
through  them  and  passed  into  the  room.  This 
one  bore  on  her  face  the  expression  of  a  might- 
ier grief  than  that  which  could  be  felt  by  any 
others — a  grief  unspeakable — beyond  words,  and 
beyond  thought.  W'lite-haired,  and  with  a  face 
which  now  seemed  turned  to  stone  in  the  fixed- 
ness of  its  great  agony,  this  figure  tottered  rath- 
er than  >valked  into  the  room.  There  was  no 
longer  any  self-restraint  in  this  woman,  who  for 
years  had  lived  under  a  self-restraint  that  never 
relaxed ;  there  was  no  thought  as  to  those  who 
might  see  or  hear ;  there  was  nothing  but  the  ut- 
ter abandonment  of  perfect  grief — of  grief  which 
had  reached  its  height  and  could  know  nothing 
more ;  there  was  nothing  less  than  despair  itself 
— that  despair  which  arises  when  all  is  lost — as 
this  woman  flung  herself  past  Zillah,  as  though 
she  had  a  grief  superior  to  Zillah's,  and  a  right 
to  pass  even  her  in  the  terrible  precedence  of 
sorrow.  It  was  thus  that  Mrs.  llart  came  be- 
fore the  presence  of  the  dead  and  flung  herself 
upon  the  inanimate  corse,  and  wound  her  thin 


78 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


arms  around  that  clay  from  which  the  soul  had 
departed,  and  pressed  her  wan  lips  upon  the 
cold  hrow  from  which  the  immiiital  dweller  had 
passed  away  to  its  immortality. 

In  the  depths  of  her  own  grief  Ziliah  wai 
roused  by  a  cry  which  expressed  a  decp-ir  grief 
than  hers — a  cry  of  agony — a  ciy  of  des|)air : 

"Oh,  my  God!  .  (Jod  of  meroj'!  Dead! 
What?  dead!  Dead — and  no  explanation — no 
forgiveness!" 

And  Mrs.  Hart  fell  down  lifeless  over  the 
form  of  the  dead. 

Ziliah  rose  with  a  wonder  in  her  soul  which 
alleviated  the  sorrow  of  bereavement.  What 
»va9  this  ?    What  did  it  mean  ? 

"Explanation!"  "Forgiveness!"  What 
words  were  these?  His  housekeeper  I — could  she 
be  any  thing  else?  What  had  she  done  which  re- 
i|uired  this  lamentation  ?  What  was  the  Earl  to 
her,  that  his  death  should  cause  such  despair? 

But  amidst  such  thoughts  Ziliah  was  still  con- 
siderate about  this  stricken  one,  and  she  called 
the  servants,  and  they  bore  her  away  to  her  own 
room.  Tliis  grief,  from  whatever  cause  it  may 
have  arisen,  was  too  much  for  Mrs.  Hart.  Be- 
fore this  she  had  been  prostrrfed.  She  now 
lost  all  consciousness,  and  lay  in  a  stupor  from 
which  she  could  not  be  arouseti. 

The  wondering  (|<iestions  which  had  arisen  in 
/illah's  mind  troubled  her  and  puzzled  her  at 
tirst ;  but  gradually  she  thought  that  she  could 
answer  them.  Mrs.  Hart,  she  thought,  was  won- 
derfully attached  to  the  Earl.  She  had  com- 
mitted some  imaginary  delinquency  in  her  man- 
agement of  the  household,  which,  in  her  weak 
and  semi-delirious  state,  was  weighing  upon  her 
spirits.  When  she  found  that  he  was  dead,  the 
shock  was  great  to  one  in  her  weak  state,  and 
she  had  only  thought  of  some  confession  which 
she  had  wished  to  make  tj  him. 

When  the  doctor  came  that  day  he  found  Zil- 
iah still  sitting  there,  holding  the  hand  of  the 
dead.     Hilda  came  to  tell  all  that  she  knew. 

"About  half  an  hour  after  Ziliah  left,"  she 
said,  "  1  was  sitting  by  the  window,  looking  out 
to  see  the  rising  sun.  Suddenly  the  Earl  gave  a 
sudden  start,  and  sat  upright  in  bed.  I  rushed 
over  to  him.  He  fell  back.  1  chafed  his  hands 
and  feet.  I  could  not  think,  at  tirst,  that  •«  was 
any  thing  more  than  a  fainting  fit.  The  truth 
gradual!^  came  to  nie.  He  was  dead.  An  aw- 
ful horror  rushed  over  me.  I  fled  from  the 
room  to  Mrs.  Molyneux,  and  roused  her  from 
sleep.  She  sprang  up  and  hurried  to  the  Earl. 
She  knows  the  rest." 

Such  was  Hilda's  account. 

As  for  the  doctor,  he  cotdd  easily  account  for 
the  sudden  death.  It  was  iniud.  His  heart  had 
been  afl'ected,  and  he  had  died  from  a  sudden 
spasm.  It  was  only  through  the  care  of  Miss 
Krielf  that  the  Earl  had  lived  so  long. 

Rut  so  great  was  Hilda's  distress  that  Ziliah 
had  to  devote  herself  to  the  task  of  soothing  her. 


CHAPTER  XXIV. 

A   LETTER    ANI>   ITS   CC"»EQUENCE8. 

Some  weeks  passed,  and  Zillah's  grief  gradu- 
ally became  lessened.  She  was  far  better  able 
to  beur  this  blow  at  this  time  than  that  firjt 


crushing  blow  which  a  few  years  before  had  de- 
scended sf)  suddenly  upon  her  young  life.  She 
began  to  rally  and  to  look  forward  to  the  future. 
Guy  had  been  written  to,  not  by  her,  but,  as 
Msual,  by  Hilda,  in  her  name.  The  news  of  her 
father's  death  had  been  b'^oken  to  him  as  deli- 
cately as  possible.  Hilda  read  it  to  Ziliah,  who, 
after  a  few  changes  of  expression,  ap])roved  of  it. 
This  letter  had  the  ett'ect  of  ir  ipressing  upon  Zil- 
iah s  mind  the  fact  that  Guy  must  soon  come 
home.  The  absence  must  cease.  In  any  case 
it  could  n(<t  last  much  longer.  Either  sh'  would 
have  had  to  join  him,  or  he  come  back  to  her. 
The  i)rospect  of  his  arrival  now  srood  before  her, 
and  the  (juestion  arose  how  to  meet  it.  Was  it 
welcome  or  unpleasant?  After  aii,  was  he  not 
a  noble  character,  and  a  valiant  soldiei- — the  son 
of  a  dear  friend  ?  Zillah's  woman's  heart  judged 
him  not  harshly,  and  much  of  her  thought  was 
taken  up  with  conjectures  as  to  the  probable  re- 
sults of  that  retuni.  She  began  at  length  to  look 
forward  to  it  with  hope ;  and  to  think  that  she 
might  be  happy  with  such  a  nuxn  for  her  hus- 
band. The  only  thing  that  troubled  her  was  the 
idea  that  any  man,  however  noble,  should  have 
the  right  of  claiming  her  as  his  without  the  pre- 
liminary wooing.  To  a  delicate  nature  this  was 
intolerable,  and  she  coidd  only  trust  that  he 
would  be  acceptable  to  her  on  his  iirst  appear- 
ance. 

In  the  midst  of  these  thoughts  a  letter  arrived 
from  (luy,  addressed  to  that  one  who  was  now 
beyond  its  reach.  Ziliah  opened  this  without 
hesitation,  for  Lord  C'hetwynde  bad  always  been 
in  the  habit  of  handing  them  to  her  directly  he 
had  read  them. 

Few  things  connected  with  those  whom  we 
have  loveil  and  lost  are  more  painful,  where  all 
is  so  exquisitely  painful,  than  the  reading  of  let- 
ters by  them  or  to  them.  The  n.ost  trivial  com- 
monplaces— the  lightest  expressions  of  regard — 
are  all  invested  with  the  tenderest  pathos,  and 
from  our  hearts  there  seems  rung  out  at  every 
line  the  despairing  refrain  of  "  nevermore — nev- 
ermore.'' It  was  thus,  and  with  blending  tears, 
that  Ziliah  read  the  first  part  of  (Juy's  letter, 
which  was  full  of  tender  love  and  thoughtful 
consideration.  Soon,  however,  this  sadness  was 
dispellei"  "^er  attention  was  arrested  ;  and  every 
other  fet  vas  banished  in  her  absorbing  in- 

terest in  what  she  read.  After  some  prelimin- 
ary paragraphs  the  letter  went  on  thus  : 

"  You  will  be  astonished,  my  dear  father,  and, 
I  hope,  pleased,  to  learn  that  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  to  return  to  England  as  soon  as  possible. 
As  you  may  imagine,  this  resolve  is  a  sudden 
one,  and  I  should  be  fal.se  to  that  perfect  con- 
fidence which  has  always  existed  between  us,  if 
i  dil  not  frankly  acquaint  you  wHh  the  circum- 
stant  fls  which  have  led  to  my  decision.  I  have 
often  mentioned  to  you  my  friend  Captain  Cam- 
eron of  the  Royal  Engineers,  who  is  su|)erintead- 
ing  the  erection  of  some  fortifications  overlook- 
ing the  mountain  pass.  Isolated  as  we  are  from 
all  European  society,  we  have  naturally  been 
thrown  much  together,  and  a  firm  friendship  has 
grown  up  between  us.  We  constituted  him  a 
member  of  our  ]'  le  mesr  consisting  of  my  two 
subalterns  and  niyself,  so  that  ho  has  been  vir- 
tually living  with  us  eve-  sin-     our  arrival  h  ^. 

"  Not  very  long  ago  our  i.'  o  circle  received 
a  very  important  addition.     This  was  Capjun 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


79 


Cameron's  sister ;  who,  having  been  left  an  or- 
phan in  England,  and  having  no  near  relatives 
there,  had  come  out  to  her  brother.  She  was  a 
charming  girl.  I  had  seen  nothing  of  English 
ladies  for  a  long  time,  and  so  it  did  not  need 
niucli  persuasion  to  induce  me  to  go  to  Cam- 
eron's house  after  """'ss  Cameron  had  arrived. 
Circumstances,  rather  than  any  deliberate  design 
on  my  part,  drew  me  there  more  and  more,  till  at 
length  all  my  evenings  were  spent  there,  and,  in 
fact,  all  my  leisure  time.  I  always  used  to  join 
Miss  Cameron  and  her  brother  on  their  morning 
rides  and  evening  walks  ;  and  very  often,  if  duty 
prevented  him  from  accompanying  her,  she  would 
H.»k  me  to  take  his  place  as  h^sr  escort.  She  was 
also  as  fond  of  music  as  I  am ;  and,  in  the  even- 
ing, we  generally  spent  most  of  the  time  in  play- 
ing or  singing  together.  She  played  accompani- 
ments to  my  songs,  and  I  to  hers.  We  per- 
formed duets  together ;  and  thus,  whether  in  the 
house  or  out  of  it,  were  thrown  into  the  closest 
possible  intercourse.  All  this  came  about  so 
naturally  that  several  months  had  passed  away 
in  this  familiar  association  before  I  began  even 
to  suspect  danger,  either  for  myself  or  for  her. 
Suddenly,  however,  I  awakened  to  the  conscious- 
ness of  the  fact  as  it  was.  All  my  life  was  filled 
by  Inez  Cameron— all  my  life  seemed  to  centre 
around  her — all  my  future  seemed  as  black  as 
midnight  apart  from  her.  Never  before  had  I 
felt  even  a  passing  interest  in  any  woman. 
Uound  as  I  had  been  all  my  life,  in  boyhood  by 
honor,  and  in  early  manhood  by  legal  ties,  I  had 
never  allowed  myself  to  think  of  any  other  wo- 
man ;  and  I  had  always  been  on  my  guard  so  as 
not  to  drift  into  any  of  those  flirtations  with  which 
men  in  general,  and  esi)eciiilly  we  ofl[icers,  con- 
tiive  to  fritter  away  the  freshness  of  affection. 
Inexperience,  combined  with  the  influence  of 
circumstances,  caused  me  to  drift  into  this  posi- 
tion ;  and  the  situation  became  one  from  which 
it  WHS  hard  indeed  to  extricate  myself.  I  had, 
however,  been  on  my  guard  after  a  fashion.  I 
had  from  the  first  scrupulously  avoided  those 
ijnlanteries  and  fafons  de.  purler  which  are  more 
usual  in  Indian  society  than  elsewhere.  Besules, 
I  bad  long  before  made  Cameron  acipiaintcd 
with  my  marriage,  and  had  taken  it  for  gi anted 
that  Inez  knew  it  also.  I  thought,  even  after 
I  had  found  out  that  I  loved  her,  that  there  was 
no  danger  for  her — and  that  she  had  always 
merely  regarded  me  as  a  married  man  and  a 
friend.  Hut  one  day  an  Occident  revealed  to  me 
that  she  knew  nothing  r-bo''t  my  marriage,  and 
had  taken  my  attentions  too  favorably  for  her 
own  peace  of  mind.  Ah,  dear  father,  such  a 
discovery  was  bitter  indesd  in  many  ways.  I 
had  to  crush  out  my  love  fo  my  sake  and  for 
hers.  One  way  only  was  possible,  and  that  was 
to  leave  her  forever.  I  at  once  saw  Cameron, 
and  told  him  frankly  the  state  of  the  case,  so  far 
as  I  was  concerned.  Like  a  good  fellow,  as  ho 
was,  he  blamed  himself  altogether.  '  You  see, 
Molyneux,'  he  said,  'a  fellow  is  very  apt  to  over- 
look ihe  possible  attractiveness  of  his  own  sistor. ' 
He  made  no  effort  to  prevent  me  from  going, 
but  evidently  thought  it  my  only  course.  I  ac- 
cordingly applied  at  once  for  leave,  and  to-nit,ht 
I  am  about  to  start  for  (Calcutta,  where  I  will 
wait  till  I  gain  a  formal  permit,  and  I  will  never 
see  Inez  again.  I  have  seivi  her  for  the  last 
time.      Oh,   father!    those  woids   of  warning 


which  you  once  spoke  to  me  have  become  fatal- 
ly true.  Chetwynde  has  been  too  dearly  bought. 
At  this  moment  the  weight  of  my  chains  is  too 
heavy  to  be  bome.  If  I  could  feel  myself  free 
once  more,  how  gladly  would  I  give  up  all  my 
ancestral  estates!  What  is  Chetwynde  to  me? 
What  happiness  can  I  ever  have  in  it  now,  or 
what  happiness  can  there  possibiv  'i^  to  me  with- 
out Inez  ?  Besides,  I  turn  from  he  thought  of 
her,  with  her  refined  be'  uty,  her  delicate  nature, 
her  innumerable  accomplishments,  her  true  and 
tender  heart,  and  think  of  that  other  one,  with 
her  ungovemoble  passions,  her  unreasoning  tem- 
per, and  her  fierce  intractability,  where  I  can  see 
nothing  but  the  soul  of  a  savage,  unredeemed  by 
any  womanly  softness  or  feminine  grace.  Oh, 
father!  was  it  well  to  bind  me  to  a  Hindu? 
You  will  say,  perhaps,  that  I  should  not  judge 
of  the  v^oman  by  the  girl.  But,  father,  when  I 
saw  her  first  at  ten,  I  found  her  impish,  and  at 
fifteen,  when  I  married  her,  she  was  no  less  so, 
only  perhaps  more  intensified.  Fierce  words  of 
insult  were  flung  at  me  by  that  creature.  My 
God!  it  is  too  bitter  to  think  of.  Her  face  is 
before  me  now,  scowling  and  malignant,  while 
behind  it,  mournful  and  jntying,  yet  loving,  is 
the  pale  sweet  face  of  Inez. 

"  But  I  dare  not  trust  myself  further.  Never 
before  have  I  spoken  to  you  about  the  horror 
which  I  feel  for  that  Hindu.  I  did  not  wish  to 
pain  you.  I  fear  I  om  selfish  in  doing  so  now. 
Hut,  after  all,  it  is  better  for  you  to  know  it  once 
for  nil.  Otherwise  the  discovery  of  it  would  be 
all  till,  worse.  Besides,  this  is  wrung  out  from 
me  in  spite  of  myself  by  the  anguish  of  my  heart. 

"Let  me  do  justice  to  the  Hindu.  You  have 
spoken  of  her  sometime.s — not  often,  however, 
and  I  thank  you  for  it — as  a  loving  daughter  to 
you.  I  thank  her  for  that,  I  am  sure.  Small 
comfort,  however,  is  this  to  me.  If  she  were 
now  an  angel  from  heaven,  she  could  not  fill  the 
place  of  Inez. 

"Forgive  me,  dear  father.  This  shall  be  the 
last  of  complaints.  Henceforth  I  am  ready  to 
bear  my  griefs.  I  am  ready  for  the  sacrifice. 
I  can  not  see  her  yet,  but  when  I  reach  England 
I  must  see  you  somehow.  If  you  can  not  meet 
me,  you  must  manage  to  send  her  off'  to  I'om- 
eroy,  so  that  I  may  see  you  in  peace.  With  you 
I  will  forget  my  sorrows,  and  will  be  again  a 
light-hearted  boy. 

"Let  me  assure  you  that  I  mean  to  keep  my 
promise  made  years  ago  when  I  was  a  boy.  It 
shall  be  the  e'lort  of  my  life  to  make  my  wife 
happy.  Whether  I  succeed  or  not  will  be  an- 
other thing.     But  I  must  have  time. 

"No  more  now.  I  have  writteti  about  this 
for  the  first  and  the  last  time.  Give  my  warm- 
est and  fondest  love  to  nurse.  I  hope  to  see 
you  soon,  and  remain,  dear  father, 

"  Your  affectioupte  son, 

"Guy  Molvneux." 

For  some  time  after  reading  this  letter  Zillali 
snt  as  if  stunned.  At  first  she  seemed  scare  'y 
olde  to  take  in  its  full  meaning.  Gradup' 
however,  it  dawned  upon  her  to  its  widest 
tent.  This,  then,  was  the  future  that  lay  ./e- 
fore  her,  and  this  was  the  man  for  whose  arrival 
sho  had  been  looking  with  such  mingled  feel- 
ings Little  need  was  there  now  for  mingled 
feelings.     She  knew  well  with  what  feeling  to 


80 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


expect  Jiim.  She  had  at  times  within  the  depths 
of  her  heart  formed  an  idea  that  lier  life  would 
not  he  loveless ;  but  now — but  now —  This  man 
whc.  was  her  husband,  and  the  only  one  to  whom 
she  could  look  for  love — this  man  turned  from 
her  in  horror;  he  hated  her,  he  loathed  her — 
worse,  he  looked  ajmn  her  as  a  Hindu — worse 
still,  if  any  thing  could  be  worse,  his  hate  and 
his  loathing  were  made  eternal ;  for  he  loved  an- 
other with  the  ardor  of  a  first  fresh  love,  and  his 
wife  seemed  to  him  a  d'  mon  full  of  malignity, 
who  stood  between  him  and  the  angel  of  his 
heart  and  the  heaven  of  his  desires,  "lis  words 
of  despiiir  rang  within  her  ears.  The  ojiprobri- 
ous  epithets  which  he  applied  to  her  stung  her 
to  tiie  fpiick.  Passionate  and  hot-hearted,  all 
her  woman's  nature  rose  up  in  arms  at  this  hor- 
rible, this  unlooked-for  assault.  All  her  pride 
surged  up  witliin  her  in  deep  and  bitter  resent- 
ment. Whatever  she  might  once  have  been,  she 
felt  that  she  was  ditt'erent  now,  and  deserved  not 
tliis.  At  this  moment  she  would  have  given 
worlds  to  be  able  to  say  to  him,  "  You  are  free, 
(io,  marry  the  woman  whom  you  love."  But  it 
was  too  late. 

Not  the  least  did  she  feel  Guy's  declaration 
that  he  would  try  to  make  her  happy.  Her 
proud  spirit  chafed  most  at  this.  He  was  go- 
ing to  treat  her  with  patient  forbearance,  and 
try  to  conceal  his  abhorrence,  v^ould  she  en- 
dure this?  Up  and  down  the  room  she  jiaccd, 
with  angry  vehemence,  asking  herself  this  ques- 
tion. 

She  who  had  all  her  life  been  surrounded  by 
idolizing  love  was  now  tied  for  life  to  a  man  whose 
highest  desire  with  regard  to  her  was  that  he 
migiit  be  able  to  endure  her.  In  an  agony  of 
grief,  she  threw  herself  ujjon  the  floor.  Was 
there  no  esca[)e?  she  thought.  None?  none? 
Oh,  for  one  friend  to  advise  her! 
.  The  longer  Ziilah  thought  of  her  position  the 
worse  it  seemed  to  h^r.  Hours  passed  away, 
and  she  kept  herself  shut  up  in  h  '  .ooin,  refus- 
ing to  admit  any  oiw,  but  considering  what  was 
best  to  do.  One  thing  only  appeared  as  possible 
under  these  circumstances,  and  that  was  to  leave 
(/hetwynde.  She  felt  that  it  was  sini])ly  inijios- 
sible  for  her  to  remain  there.  And  where  could 
she  go?  To  Ponieroy  Court?  Hut  that  had 
been  Imnded  over  to  him  as  part  of  the  payment 
to  him  for  taking  lier.  She  could  not  go  back  to 
a  place  which  was  now  the  property  of  this  man. 
Nor  was  it  necessary.  She  had  money  of  her 
own,  which  would  enable  her  to  live  as  well  as 
she  wished.  Thirty  thousand  pounds  would  give 
her  an  income  sufHcient  for  her  wants ;  and  siie 
might  find  some  place  where  she  could  live  in  se- 
clusion. Her  first  wild  thoughts  were  a  desire 
for  death  ;  but  since  death  would  not  come,  she 
coidd  at  least  so  arrange  matters  as  to  be  dead 
to  this  man.     Such  was  her  final  resolve. 

It  was  with  this  in  her  mind  that  she  went  out 
to  Hilda's  room.  Hilda  was  writing  as  she  en- 
tered, but  on  seeing  her  she  hastily  shut  her  desk, 
and  sprang  forward  to  greet  her  friend. 

"  My  darling!"  said  slie.  "  How  I  rejoice  to 
see  you  !  Is  it  some  new  grief?  Will  you  never 
trust  me  ?  You  are  so  reticent  with  me  that  it 
breaks  my  heart." 

"  Hilda,"  said  she,  "'  I  have  just  been  reading 
a  letter  from  Lord  t'hetwynde  to  his  father.  He 
is  about  to  return  home." 


Zilluh's  voice,  as  she  spoke,  was  hard  and  me- 
tallic, and  Hilda  saw  that  something  was  wrong. 
She  noticed  that  Ziilah  used  the  words  Lord 
Chetwynde  with  stern  emphasis,  instead  of  the 
name  Guy,  by  which  she,  like  the  rest,  had  al- 
ways s])oken  of  him. 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  dear,"  said  Hilda, 
quietly,  and  in  a  cordial  tone;  "for,  although 
you  no  doubt  dread  the  first  meeting,  especially 
under  such  painful  circumstances,  yet  "t  will  be 
for  your  happiness. " 

"Hilda,"  said  Ziilah,  with  increased  stern- 
ness, "  Lord  Chetwynde  and  I  will  never  meet 
again." 

Hilda  started  back  with  unutterable  astonish- 
ment on  her  face. 

"Never  meet  again!"  she  repeated — "not 
meet  Lord  Chetwynde — your  husband  ?  What 
do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  am  going  to  leave  Chetwynde  as  soon  as 
possible,  and  shall  neveragain  cro.ss  its  threshold. " 

Hilda  went  over  to  Ziilah  and  put  her  arms 
around  her. 

"  Darling,"  said  she,  in  her  most  caressing 
tones,  "you  are  agitated.  What  is  it?  You 
are  in  trouble.  What  now  grief  can  have  come 
to  you?  Will  you  not  tell  me?  Is  there  any 
one  living  who  can  Bympathize  with  you  as  I 
can  ?" 

At  these  accents  of  kindness  Zillah's  fortitude 
gave  wav.  She  j)ut  her  head  on  her  friend's 
shoulder  and  sobbed  convulsively.  The  tears 
relieved  her.  For  a  long  time  she  wept  in  si- 
lence. 

"I  have  no  one  now  in  the  world  but  you, 
dearest  Hilda.  And  you  will  not  forsake  me, 
will  you  ?" 

"  Forsake  you,  my  darling,  my  sister?  forsake 
you?  Never  while  I  live!  But  why  do  you 
speak  of  flight  and  of  being  forsaken?  What 
mad  fancies  have  come  over  you  ?" 

Ziilah  drew  from  her  pocket  the  lei.^r  which 
she  had  read. 

"Here,"  she  said,  "read  this,  and  you  will 
know  all." 

Hilda  took  flu:  letter  and  read  it  in  silence,  all 
through,  and  then  commencing  it  again,  she  once 
more  read  it  through  to  the  end. 

Then  she  Hung  her  arms  around  Ziilah,  im- 
pulsively, and  strained  her  to  her  heart. 

"  You  unt'  M'stand  all  now?" 

"All,"aiiid  Hilda. 

"And  what  do  vou  think?" 

"Think!     It  is'horrible!" 

"Whatwoiddyoudo?" 

"I?"  cried  Hilda,  starting  up.  "I  would 
kill  myself." 

Ziilah  shook  her  head. 

"  I  am  not  ijuite  capable  of  that — not  yet — 
though  it  may  be  in  me  to  do  it — some  time. 
Bui  now  I  can  not.  My  idea  is  the  same  as  yours, 
though.  I  will  go  into  seclusion,  and  be  dead  to 
him,  at  any  rate." 

Hilda  wos  silent  for  a  few  moments.  Then 
she  read  the  letter  again. 

"Ziilah,"  said  she,  with  a  deep  sigh,  "it  is 
very  well  to  talk  of  killing  one's  self,  as  I  did 
just  now,  or  of  running  oway ;  but,  after  all, 
other  things  must  be  considered.  I  spoke  hasti- 
ly ;  but  I  am  calmer  than  you,  and  I  ought  to 
advise  you  calmly.  After  all,  it  is  a  very  seri- 
ous thing  that  you  speak  of;   and,  indeed,  are 


'f^" 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


81 


yon  capable  of  sncli  a  thing?  Whatever  I  may 
individually  think  of  your  resolve,  1  know  that 
you  are  doing  what  the  world  will  consider  mad- 
ness ;  and  it  is  my  duty  to  put  the  case  plainly 
before  you.  In  the  first  place,  then,  your  hus- 
band does  not  love  you,  and  he  loves  another — 
very  hard  to  bear,  I  allow ;  but  men  are  fickle, 
and  i)erhaps  ere  many  months  have  elapsed  he 
may  forget  the  cold  English  beauty  as  he  gazes 
on  your  Southern  face.  You  are  very  beautiAd, 
Zillah ;  and  when  he  sees  you  he  will  change  his 
tone.     lie  may  love  you  at  first  sight." 

"  Then  I  should  despise  him,"  said  Zillah,  hot- 
ly. "What  kind  of  love  is  that  which  changes 
at  the  sight  of  every  new  face?  Besides,  yon 
fiirget  how  he  des)iises  me.  I  am  a  Hindu  in 
liLs  eyes.  C'an  contempt  ever  change  into  love? 
If  such  a  miracle  couhl  take  place,  I  should  nev- 
er believe  in  it.  Those  bitter  words  in  that  let- 
ter would  always  rankle  in  niy  heart." 

"Thiit  is  true,"  said  Hilda,  sorrowfully. 
"Then  we  will  put  that  supposition  from  us. 
But,  allowing  you  never  gain  your  husliand's 
love,  remember  how  much  there  is  left  you.  His 
]iosition,  bis  rank,  are  yours  by  right — yon  are 
J^ady  Chetwynde,  and  the  mistress  of  t'hetwynde 
Castle.  You  can  fill  the  )jlace  with  guests,  among 
whom  you  will  be  ([ueen.  You  may  go  to  Lon- 
don during  the  season,  take  the  position  to  which 
you  are  entitled  there  as  wife  of  a  peer,  and,  in 
the  best  society  which  the  world  affords,  you  will 
receive  all  the  admiration  and  homage  which  you 
deserve.  Beauty  like  yours,  combined  with  rank 
and  wealth,  may  make  you  a  (pieen  of  society. 
Have  you  strength  to  forego  al!  this,  Zillah?" 

"  You  have  left  one  thing  out  in  your  brilliant 
picture,"  replied  Zillah.  "  All  this  may,  indeed, 
be  mine — but — mine  on  sufferance.  If  I  con  only 
get  this  as  Lord  (^hetwynde's  wife,  I  beg  leave 
to  decline  it.  Besides,  I  have  no  ambition  to 
shine  in  society.  Had  you  urged  mo  to  remem- 
ber all  that  the  Earl  has  done  for  me,  and  try  to 
endure  the  son  for  the  sake  of  the  father,  that 
might  possibly  have  hnd  weight.  Ilud  you 
shown  me  that  my  marriage  was  irrevocable, 
and  that  the  best  thing  was  to  accept  the  situa- 
tion, and  try  to  bo  a  dutiful  wife  to  the  .son  of 
the  man  whom  I  called  father,  you  might  per- 
haps for  a  moment  have  shaken  my  pride.  I 
might  have  stifled  the  promptings  of  those  wo- 
manly instincts  which  have  been  so  frightfully 
outraged,  and  consented  to  remain  passively  in 
a  situation  where  I  was  placed  by  those  two 
fi'iends  who  loved  mo  bust.  Hut  when  you  s])eak 
to  me  of  the  dazzling  future  which  may  lie  before 
me  as  Lord  C'hetwynde's  wife,  you  remind  me  | 
how  little  he  is  dejiendent  for  happiness  u])on  any 
thing  that  I  can  give  him ;  of  the  brilliant  career 
in  society  or  in  politics  which  is  open  to  him,  and 
which  will  render  domestic  life  superfluous.  1 1 
have  thought  over  all  this  most  fully  ,  but  what 
you  have  just  said  has  thrown  a  nev  light  upon 
it.  Ii\  the  (|uiet  seclusion  in  which  I  have  hith- 
erto lived  I  had  almost  forgotten  that  there  was 
an  outside  world,  where  men  seek  their  happi- 
ness. Can  you  think  that  I  am  able  to  enter 
that  world,  and  strive  to  be  a  (jueen  of  society, 
with  no  protecting  love  artmnd  me  to  warn  me 
against  its  perils  or  to  shield  n  ^  from  them  ? 
No!  I  see  it  all.  Under  no  circumstances  cm 
I  live  with  this  man  who  abhors  me.  No  toler- 
ation ^n  be  irassible  on  either  smo.  The  best 
'  F 

■^  :      ■. 


thing  for  me  to  do  is  to  die.  But  since  I  can 
not  die,  the  next  best  thing  is  to  sink  out  of  his 
view  into  nothingness,  ^io,  Hilda,  I  shall  leave 
Chetwynde',  and  it  is  useless  to  attempt  to  dis- 
suade me." 

Zillah  had  spoken  in  low,  measured  tones,  in 
words  which  were  so  formal  that  they  sounded 
like  a  school-girl's  recitation— a  long,  dull  mon- 
otone— the  monotony  of  despair.  Her  face 
drooped — her  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  floor — her 
white  hands  clasped  each  other,  and  she  sat  thus 
— an  image  of  woe.  Hilda  looked  at  her  steadi- 
ly. For  a  moment  there  flashed  over  her  lips 
the  faintest  shadow  of  a  smile — the  lips  curled 
cruelly,  the  eyes  gleamed  coldly— but  it  was  for 
a  moment.  Instantly  it  had  ))assed,  and  as  Zil- 
lah. ceased,  Hilda  leaned  toward  her  and  drew 
her  head  down  upon  her  breast. 

"Ah,  my  poor,  sweet  darling!  my  friend! 
my  Bister!  my  noble  Zillah!"  she  murmured. 
"I  will  say  no  more.  1  see  you  are  fixed  in 
your  purpose.  I  only  wished  you  to  net  with 
your  eyes  open.  But  of  what  avail  is  it?  Conld 
you  live  to  be  scorned — live  on  sutt'erance  ? 
Never!  f  would  die  first.  What  compensation 
could  it  be  to  be  rich,  or  famous,  when  you  were 
the  property  of  a  man  who  loathed  you  ?  Ah, 
my  dear  one !  what  am  I  saying  ?  But  you  are 
right.  Yes,  sooner  than  live  with  that  man  I 
would  kill  myself." 

A  long  silence  followed. 

"  I  suppose  you  have  not  yet  made  any  plans, 
darling,"  suid  Hilda  at  last. 

"  Yes  I  have.  A  thousand  plans  at  once  came 
sweeping  through  my  mind,  and  I  have  some 
general  idea  of  what  I  am  to  do,"  said  Zillah. 
"I  think  there  will  be  no  difficulty  about  the 
details.  You  remember,  when  I  wished  to  run 
away,  after  dear  papa's  death — ah,  how  glad  I 
am  tluu  I  did  not — how  many  happy  years  I 
should  have  lost — the  question  of  money  wos  the 
insuperable  obstacle ;  but  that  is  ettectually  re- 
moved now.  You  know  my  money  is  so  settled 
that  it  is  payable  to  my  own  checks  at  my  bank- 
ers', who  are  not  even  the  Chetwyndes'  bankers ; 
for  the  Earl  thought  it  better  to  leave  it  with  pa- 
pa's men  of  business," 

"  You  must  be  veiy  carefUl,"  said  Hilda,  "  to 
leave  no  trace  by  which  Lord  Chetwynde  can 
find  you  out.  You  know  thot  he  will  move 
heaven  and  earth  to  find  you.  His  character 
and  his  strict  ideas  of  honor  would  insure  that. 
The  mere  fact  that  you  bore  his  name,  would 
make  it  gall  and  wormwood  to  him  to  be  igno- 
rant of  your  doings.  Besides,  he  lays  great 
stress  on  his  promise  to  your  father." 

"He  need  not  fear,"  said  Zillah.  "The dear 
old  name,  which  I  love  almost  as  proudly  as  he 
<loes,  shall  never  gain  the  lightest  stain  from  me. 
Of  course  I  shall  cease  to  use  it  now.  It  would 
be  easy  to  trace  Lady  Chetwynde  to  any  place. 
My  idea  is,  of  course,  to  take  an  assumed  name. 
You  and  I  can  live  qnietly  and  raise  no  suspi- 
cions that  we  are  other  than  we  seem.  Bur, 
Hilda,  are  you  sure  that  you  are  willing  to  go 
into  exile  with  me  ?  Can  you  endure  it  ?  Can 
vou  live  with  me,  and  share  my  monotonous 
life?" 

Hilda  looked  steadily  at  Zillah,  holding  her 
hand  the  while. 

"  Zillah,"  said  she,  in  a  solemn  voice,  "  whith- 
er thou  goest,  I  will  go ,  and  whore  thou  lodgcst, 


n 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


'  WHITHER  THOU   OOK8T, 


I  will  lodge.  Thy  people  shall  be  my  peojjle,  and 
thy  God  my  God!" 

A  deep  silence  followed.  Zillah  pressed  Ilil- 
dn'.s  hand  and  stifled  a  half  sob. 

"At  any  rate,"  said  Hilda,  "whoever  else 
may  fail,  you — you  hove,  at  least,  one  faithful 
heart — one  friend  on  whom  yon  can  always  rely. 
No,  you  need  not  thank  me,"  said  she,  as  Zil- 
lah fondly  kissed  her  and  was  about  to  speak ; 
"  I  am  but  a  poor,  selfish  creature,  after  all. 
You  know  I  could  never  be  happy  away  from 
you.  You  know  that  there  is  no  one  in  the 
world  whom  I  love  but  you ;  and  there  is  no 
other  who  loves  me.  Do  I  not  owe  every  tiling 
to  General  Pomeroy  and  to  you,  my  darling  ?" 

"Not  more  than  I  owe  to  you,  dear  Hilda. 
I  feel  nshomed  when  I  think  of  how  much  I 
made  you  endure  for  years,  through  my  sclfi.sh 
exactions  and  my  ungovernable  temper.  Hut  I 
have  changed  a  little  I  think.  The  Earl's  influ- 
ence over  me  was  for  good,  I  hope.  Dear  Hil- 
da, we  have  none  but  one  another,  and  must 
cling  together  " 

Silence  then  followed,  and  they  sat  for  a  long 
time,  each  wrapped  up  in  plans  for  the  future. 


CHAPTER  XXV. 

CUTTING   THE    I, AST  TIB. 

Fkarful  that  her  courage  might  fail  if  she 
gave  herself  any  more  time  to  reflect  on  what 
she  was  doing,  Zillah  announced  to  the  house- 
hold, beff)re  tlie  close  of  that  day,  that  the  shock 
'it'  Lord  Chetwynde's  deoth  rendered  a  change 
necessary  for  her,  and  that  she  should  leave  home 


as  soon  as  she  conKI 
conveniently  do  so. 
She  also  told  them  of 
their  master's  expect- 
ed return,  and  thot 
every  thing  must  be  in 
readiness  for  his  re- 
ception, so  that,  on 
her  return,  .she  might 
have  no  trouble  before 
her.  She  gave  some 
faint  hints  that  she 
might  i)robably  meet 
him  at  London,  in  or- 
der to  disarm  suspi- 
cion, and  also  to  make 
it  easier  for  C^het- 
wynde  himself  to  con- 
ceal the  fact  of  her 
flight,  if  he  wished  to 
do  so.  She  never 
ceased  to  be  thought- 
fid  about  protecting 
bis  honor,  as  far  as 
possible. 

The  few  days  be- 
fore Zillah's  depart- 
ure were  among  the 
most  wretched  she 
had  ever  known.  The 
home  which  she  so 
dearly  loved,  and 
which  she  had 
thought  was  to  be 
hers  forever,  had  to 
be  left,  because  she  felt  that  she  was  not  wanted 
there.  She  went  about  the  grounds,  visited  ev- 
ery favorite  haunt  and  nook — the  spots  endeared 
to  her  by  the  remembrance  of  many  happy  hours 
passed  among  them — and  her  tears  flowed  fast 
and  bitterly  as  she  thought  that  she  was  now  see- 
ing them  for  the  la.st  time.  The  whole  of  the  Inst 
day  at  Chetwynde  she  passed  in  the  little  church, 
under  which  every  Molyneux  had  been  buried  for 
centuries  back.  It  was  full  of  their  marble  effi- 
gies. Often  had  she  watched  the  sunlight  flick- 
ering over  their  pale  sculptured  faces.  C)ne  of 
these  forms  had  been  her  especial  delight ;  for 
she  could  trace  in  his  features  a  strong  family  re- 
semblance to  Lord  Chetwynde.  This  one's  name 
was  Guy .  Formerly  she  used  to  see  a  likeness  be- 
tween him  and  the  Guy  who  was  now  alive.  He 
bad  died  in  the  Holy  Land;  but  his  bones  had 
been  brought  home,  that  they  might  rest  in  the 
family  vault.  She  had  been  ibnd  of  weaving  ro- 
mances as  to  his  probable  history  and  fat";  but 
no  thought  of  him  was  in  her  mind  to-uay,  as 
she  wept  over  the  resting-place  of  one  who  bad 
filled  a  father's  place  to  her,  or  as  she  knelt  and 
prayed  in  her  desolation  to  Him  who  has  prom- 
ised to  be  a  father  to  the  fatherless.  Earnestly 
did  she  entreat  that  His  presence  might  be  with 
her,  His  providence  direct  her  lonely  way.  I'oor 
child !  In  the  wild  impulsiveness  of  her  nature 
she  thought  that  the  sacrifice  which  she  was  mak- 
ing of  herself  and  her  hopes  must  be  acceptable 
to  Him,  and  pleasing  in  His  sight.  She  did  not 
know  that  she  was  merely  following  her  own 
will,  and  turning  her  buck  upon  the  path  of  duty. 
That  duty  lay  in  simple  acceptance  of  the  fate 
which  seemed  ordained  for  her,  whether  for  good 
or  evil.     Happy  marriages  were  never  promised 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


88 


pioin- 

miiestly 

K!  with 

Poor 

nature 
ns  mak- 
•eptahlc 
(lid  not 
er  own 
)f  duty, 
he  fnte 
'or  good 
•omised 


by  Him ;  and,  in  flying  from  one  which  seemed 
to  promise  unha])piness,  she  forgot  that  "obe- 
dience in  l)etter  tiian  sacrifice,"  even  though  the 
sacrifice  l)e  tiiat  of  one's  self. 

Twilight  \^■us  fast  closing  in  before  she  reached 
the  castle,  exhausted  from  the  violence  of  her 
emotion,  and  faint  and  weak  from  her  long  fast- 
ing. Hilda  expressed  alarm  at  her  protracted 
absence,  and  said  that  she  was  just  alnjut  going 
in  seatch  of  her.  "  My  darling,"  said  she,  "you 
will  wear  away  your  strength.  You  are  too  weak 
now  to  leave.  Let  me  urge  you,  for  the  last 
time,  to  stay;  give  up  your  mad  resolution." 

"No," said  Zillah.  "You  know  you  yourself 
said  that  I  was  right." 

"  1  did  not  say  that  you  were  right,  darling. 
I  said  what  I  would  do  in  your  place ;  but  I  did 
not  at  all  sav,  or  even  hint,  that  it  would  be 
right." 

"  Never  mind,"  said  Zillah,  wearily ;  "  I  have 
nerved  myself  to  .go  through  with  it,  and  I  can 
tlo  it.  The  worst  bitterness  is  over  now.  There 
is  hut  one  thing  more  for  me  to  do,  and  then  the 
ties  between  me  and  Chetwynde  are  severed  for- 
ever." 

At  Hilda's  earnest  entreaty  she  took  some  re- 
freshment, and  then  lay  down  to  rest ;  but,  feel- 
ing too  excited  to  sleep,  she  got  up  to  accomplish 
the  task  she  had  before  her.  This  was  to  write 
a  letter  to  her  husband,  telling  him  of  her  de- 
parture, and  her  reason  for  doing  so.  She  wish- 
ed to  do  this  in  as  few  words  as  possible,  to  show 
no  signs  of  bitterness  toward  him,  or  of  her  own 
sufi'ering.     So  she  wrote  as  follows : 

"  Chetwynde  Castle,  ifarch  20,  1850. 

"My  Lord, — Your  last  letter  did  not  reach 
Chetwynde  Castle  until  after  your  dear  father 
had  been  taken  from  us.  It  was  therefore  o|)en- 
ed  and  read  by  me.  1  need  not  describe  what 
my  feelings  were  on  reading  it ;  but  will  only  say, 
that  if  it  were  ])ossible  for  me  to  free  you  from 
the  galling  chains  that  bind  you  to  me,  I  would 
gladly  do  so.  But,  though  it  be  impossible  for 
me  to  render  you  free  to  marry  her  whom  you 
love,  I  can  at  least  rid  you  of  my  hated  ])resence. 
I  can  not  ''e;  but  I  can  be  as  good  as  dead  to 
you.  To-..M'.-row  I  shall  leave  Chetwynde  for- 
ever, and  you  will  never  see  my  face  again. 
Search  for  me,  were  you  inclined  to  make  it,  will 
be  useless.  I  shall  probably  depart  from  En- 
gland, and  leave  no  trace  of  my  whereabouts.  I 
shall  live  under  an  assumed  name,  so  as  not  to 
let  the  noble  name  of  Chetwynde  suH^er  any  dis- 
honor from  me.  If  1  die,  I  will  take  care  to  have 
the  news  sent  to  you. 

"Do  not  think  that  I  blame  you.  A  man's 
love  is  not  under  his  own  control.  Had  I  re- 
mained, I  know  that,  as  your  wife,  I  should  have 
experienced  the  utmost  kindness  and  considera- 
tion. Such  kindness,  however,  to  a  nature  like 
mine  would  have  been  only  galling.  Something 
more  than  cold  civility  is  necessary  in  order  to 
render  endurable  the  daily  intercourse  of  hus- 
band and  wife.  Therefore  I  do  not  choose  to 
subject  myaelf  to  such  a  life. 

"  In  this,  the  last  communication  between  us, 
I  must  say  to  you  what  I  intended  to  reserve  un- 
til I  could  say  it  in  person.  It  needed  but  a  few 
weeks'  intimate  association  with  your  Uv-ar  father, 
whom  1  loved  as  my  father,  and  whom  I  called 
by  that  name,  to  prove  how  utterly  I  had  been 


mistaken  as  to  the  motives  and  circumstances 
that  led  to  our  marriage.  I  had  his  full  and  free 
forgiveness  for  having  doubted  him  ;  and  I  now, 
as  a  woman,  beg  to  apologize  to  you  for  all  that 
I  might  have  said  as  a  passionate  girl. 

"  Let  me  also  assure  you,  my  lord,  of  my  deep 
sympathy  for  you  in  the  trial  which  awaits  you 
on  your  return,  when  you  will  find  tMietwynde 
Castle  deprived  of  the  presence  of  that  father 
whom  you  love.  I  feel  for  you  and  with  you. 
My  loss  is  only  second  to  yours ;  for,  in  your 
father,  I  lost  the  only  friend  whom  I  possessed. 
"  Yours,  very  respecttully, 

"Zillah." 

Hilda  of  course  had  to  copy  this,  for  the  ob- 
jection to  Zillah 's  writing  was  as  strong  as  be- 
fore, and  an  ex])lanation  was  now  more  difficult 
to  make  than  ever.  Zillah,  however,  read  it  in 
Hilda's  handwriting,  and  then  Hilda  took  it,  as 
she  always  did,  to  inclose  it  for  the  mail. 

She  took  it  to  her  own  room,  drew  from  her  desk 
a  letter  which  was  addressed  to  <»uy,  and  this  was 
the  one  which  she  posted.  Zillah's  letter  was 
carefully  destroyed.  Yet  Zillah  v.ent  with  Hilda 
to  the  post-office,  so  anxious  was  she  about  her 
last  letter,  and  saw  it  drop])ed  in  the  box,  as  she 
supposed. 

Then  she  felt  that  she  had  cut  the  last  tie. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

FLIGHT    AND     REFUGE. 

AnouT  a  fortnight  after  the  events  narrated  in 
our  last  chapter  a  carriage  stopped  before  the 
door  of  a  snmll  cottage  situated  in  the  village 
of  Tenby  on  the  coast  of  Pembrokeshire.  Tv  > 
ladies  in  deep  mourning  got  out  of  it,  and  entered 
the  gate  of  the  garden  which  lay  between  them 
and  the  house ;  while  a  maid  descended  from  the 
rumble,  and  in  voluble  French,  alternating  with 
broken  English,  besought  the  coachman's  tender 
consideration  for  the  boxes  which  he  was  hand- 
ing down  in  a  manner  expressive  of  energy  and 
expedition,  rather  than  any  regard  for  their  con- 
tents. A  resounding  "thump"  on  the  ground, 
caused  by  the  sudden  descent  of  one  of  her  pre- 
cious charges,  elicited  a  cry  of  agony  from  the 
Frenchwoman,  accompanied  by  the  pathetic  ap- 
peal: 

"Oh,  mon  Dieu !  Qu'est  ce que  vous  faites la ? 
Prenez  garde  done !" 

This  outbreak  attracted  the  attention  of  the 
ladies,  who  turned  round  to  witness  the  srcne. 
On  seeing  distress  depicted  on  every  lineament 
of  her  faithfid  Abigail's  face,  the  younger  of  the 
two  said,  with  a  faint  smile  : 

"  I'oor  Mathilde !  That  man's  rough  handling 
will  break  the  bo-xes  and  her  heart  at  the  same 
time.  But  after  all  it  will  only  anticipate  the 
unhappy  end,  for  1  am  nire  that  she  will  die  of 
jfrief  and  ennui  when  s'le  sees  the  place  we  have 
brought  her  to.  She  thought  it  dreadful  at  Chet- 
wynde that  there  were  so  few  to  see  and  to  ftp])re- 
ciate  the  results  of  her  skill,  yet  even  there  a  few 
could  occasionally  be  found  to  dress  me  for.  But 
when  she  finds  that  I  utterly  repudiate  French 
toilettes  for  sitting  upon  the  rocks,  and  that  the 
neighboring  fishermen  are  not  as  a  rule  judges 
of  the  latest  coift'ure,  I  am  afraid  to  think  of  the 


! 


84 


THE  CllYPTOGUAM. 


V\\ 


consequences.  Will  it  be  any  thing  less  than  a 
suicide,  do  von  think,  Ilildii  ?" 

"Well,  Zillah,"  said  Hilda,  "I  advised  you 
not  to  bring  her.  A  secret  intrusted  to  many 
ceases  to  lie  a  secret.  It  would  have  been  better 
to  leave  behind  you  all  who  had  iMjen  connected 
with  (Jhetwynde,  but  especially  Mathilde,  who  is 
both  silly  and  talkative." 

"I  know  that  her  coming  is  sorely  against 
your  judgment,  Hilda;  but  1  do  not  think  that 
1  run  any  risk.  I  know  you  despise  me  for  my 
weakness,  hut  I  really  like  Mathilde,  and  could 
not  give  her  up  and  take  a  new  maid,  unless  I 
had  to.  She  is  \ory  fond  of  nic,  and  would  rath- 
er be  with  me,  even  in  this  outlandish  place, 
than  in  London,  even,  with  any  one  else.  You 
know  I  am  the  only  person  she  has  lived  with  in 
J'',ngland.  She  has  no  friends  in  the  country,  so 
her  being  French  is  in  her  favor.  She  has  not 
the  least  idea  in  what  county  '  ce  cher  mais  tristo 
Slmteveen'  is  situated  ;  so  she  could  not  do  much 
Jiarra  even  if  she  would,  especially  as  her  jiro- 
nuncialion  of  the  name  is  more  likely  to  be- 
wilder than  to  instruct  her  hearers." 

By  this  time  they  had  entered  the  house,  and 
Zillah,  putting  her  arm  in  Hilda's,  proceeded  to 
inspect  the  mansion.  It  was  a  very  tiny  one ;  the 
whole  house  coidd  conveniently  have  stood  in  the 
CMietwynde  drawing-room  ;  but  Zillah  declared 
that  she  delighteil  in  its  snugncss.  Every  thing 
was  exquisitely  neat,  both  within  and  without. 
The  place  had  been  obtained  by  Hilda's  diligent 
search.  It  had  belonged  to  a  coast-gtiard  officer 
who  had  recently  died,  and  Hilda,  by  means  of 
(iualtier,  obtained  jiossession  of  the  whole  place, 
furniture  and  all,  by  paying  a  high  rent  to  the 
widow.  A  housekeeper  and  servants  were  in- 
cluded in  the  arrangements.  Zillah  was  in  ec- 
stasies with  her  drawing-room,  which  extended 
the  whole  length  of  the  house,  having  at  the  front 
an  alcove  window  looking  upon  the  balcony  and 
thence  upon  the  sea,  and  commanding  at  the 
back  a  beautiful  view  of  the  mountains  beyond. 
The  views  from  all  the  windows  were  charming, 
and  from  garret  to  cellar  the  house  was  nicely 
furnished  and  well  appointed,  so  that  after  hunt- 
ing into  every  nook  and  corner  the  two  friends 
expressed  themselves  delighted  with  their  new 
home. 

The  account  which  they  gave  of  them.selves  to 
those  with  whom  they  were  brought  in  contact 
was  a  very  simple  one,  and  not  likely  to  excite 
suspicion.  They  were  sisters — the  Misses  Lor- 
ton — the  death  of  their  father  not  long  before 
had  rendered  them  orphans.  They  had  no  near 
relations,  but  were  perfectly  independent  as  to 
means.  They  had  come  to  Tenby  for  the  benefit 
of  the  sea  air,  and  wished  to  lead  as  quiet  and 
retired  a  life  as  possible  for  the  next  two  years. 
They  had  brought  no  letters,  and  they  wished  for 
no  society. 

They  soon  settled  down  into  their  new  life,  and 
their  days  passed  happily  and  quietly.  Neither 
of  them  had  ever  lived  near  the  sea  before,  so 
that  it  was  now  a  constant  delight  to  them.  Zil- 
lah would  sit  for  luMirs  on  the  shore,  watching 
the  breakers  daslung  over  the  rocks  beyond, 
and  tumbling  at  her  feet ;  or  she  would  play  like 
a  child  with  the  rising  tide,  trying  how  far  she 
could  run  out  with  the  receding  wave  before  the 
next  wliite-crestod  billow  should  come  seething 
and  foaming  after  her,  as  if  to  punish  her  for 


I  her  temerity  in  venturing  within  the  precincts  of 
I  the  mightv  ocean.     Hilda  always  accompanied 
i  her,  but  her  amusements  took  a  much  more  am- 
bitious turn.     She  hud  formed  a  jjassion  for  col- 
lecting marine  curiosities;  and  while  Zillah  sat 
dreamily  watching  the  waves,  she  woidd  climiber 
I  over  the  rocks  in  search  of  sea-weeds,  limpets, 
I  anemones,  and  other  things  of  the  kind,  shouting 
out  gladly  whenever  she  had  found  any  thing 
I  new.     Gradually  she  extended  her  raml)les,  and 
i  explored  all  the  coast  within  easy  walkiug  dis- 
'■  tance,  and  became  familiar  with  every  bay  and 
outlet  within  the  circuit  of  several  miles.     Zil- 
lah's  strength  had  not  yet  fully  returned,  so  that 
'  she  was  nimble  to  go  on  these  long  rambles. 

One  day  Zillah  announced  an  intention  of  tak- 
ing a  drive  inland,  and  urged  Hilda  to  come 
with  her. 

\      "Well,  dear,  I  would  rather  not  unless  you 
really  want  me  to.     I  want  very  much  to  go  on 
the  shore  to-day.     I  found  some  beautiful  speci- 
mens on  the  cliff's  last  night ;  but  it  was  growing 
'  too  late  for  me  to  secure  them,  so  I  determ'-ied 
1  to  do  so  as  early  as  possible  this  afternoon." 
I      "Oh,"  said  Zillah,  with  a  laugh,  "1  should 
I  not  dream  of  ]>utting  in  a  rivalry  with  your  new 
passion.     I  should  not  stand  a  chance  against  a 
shrimp  ;  but  I  hope  your  new  a(|uarium  will  soon 
I  make  its  appearance,  or  else  some  of  your  pets 
I  will  come  to  an  untimely  end.  I  fear.     I  heard 
!  the  house-maid  this  morning  vowing  vengeance 
against  '  them  nasty  smellin'  things  as  Miss  Lor- 
ton  were  always  a-litteriu'  the  house  with.' " 
!      "She  will  soon  get  rid  of  them,  then.     The 
man  has  promised  me  the  a(|uarium  in  two  or 
j  three  days,  and  it  will  be  the  glory  of  the  whole 
establishment.     But  now — good-by,  darling — I 
I  must  be  off"  at  once,  so  as  to  have  as  much  day- 
light as  possible." 

'■  You  will  be  back  before  me,  I  suppose." 

"Very  likely;    but  if  I  am  not,  do  not  be 

anxious.  I  shall  stay  on  the  cliff's  as  late  as  I  can." 

I      "Oh,  Hilda!   I  do  not  like  your  going  alone. 

;  Won't  you  take  John  with  you':'    I  can  easily 

i  drive  by  myself." 

j      "Any  fate  rather  than  that,"  said  Hilda,  laugh- 
ing.     "  What  could  I  do  with  John  ?'' 

"Take  Mathilde,  then,  or  one  of  the  maids." 
"Mathilde  I  My  dear  girl,  what  are  you  think- 
ing of 'i*  You  know  she  has  never  ventured  out- 
side of  the  garden  gate  since  we  have  been  here. 
She  shudders  whenever  she  looks  at  'cette  vi- 
Inine  mer,'  and  no  earthly  consideration  could 
induce  her  to  put  her  f(X)t  on  the  shore.  But 
what  has  put  it  in  your  head  that  I  should  want 
any  one  with  me  to-day,  when  I  have  gone  so 
often  without  a  protector?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Zillah.  "You  spoke 
about  not  being  home  till  late,  and  I  felt  nerv- 
ous. " 

"  You  need  not  be  uneasy  then,  darling,  on 
that  account.  I  shall  leave  the  cliff's  early.  I 
only  want  to  be  untrammeled,  so  as  to  ramble 
about  at  random.  At  any  rate  I  shall  be  home 
in  good  time  for  dinner,  and  will  be  as  hungry 
as  a  hunter,  I  promise  you.  I  only  want  you 
not  to  fret  your  foolish  little  head  if  I  am  not 
hen  at  tlie  very  moment  I  expect." 

"  Very  well,"  said  Zillah,  "1  will  not,  and  I 
must  not  keep  you  talking  any  longer." 

"  An  revoir,"  said  Hilda,  kissing  her.  "An 
revoir,"  she  repeated,  gayly. 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


85 


mg,  oil 
LMily.  I 
to  ramble 
he  liome 
IS  hungry 
want  yoH 
1  am  not 


Zilhih  Bmiled,  nnd  as  she  rose  to  go  and  dress 
for  the  drive  Hilda  took  her  path  to  the  clitt's. 

It  was  seven  o'clock  when  Zillah  returned. 

"  Is  Miss  Lorton  in?"  siie  usked,  as  she  en- 
tered. 

"No,  miss,"  answered  the  maid. 

"I  will  wait  dinner  then,"  said  Zillah;  and 
after  changing  her  things  she  went  out  ou  the 
balcony  to  wait  for  Hilda's  return. 

Half  an  hour  )>a8sed,  and  Hilda  did  not  come. 
Zillah  gre^v  an.xious,  and  looked  incessantly  at 
her  watch.  Eight  o'clock  come — a  quarter  after 
eight. 

Zillah  could  stand  it  no  longer.  She  sent  for 
John. 

"John,"  said  she,  "  I  am  getting  uneasy  about 
Miss  Lorton.  I  wish  you  would  walk  along  the 
beach  and  meet  her.  It  is  too  late  for  her  to  be 
out  alone." 

John  departed  on  his  errand,  and  Zillah  felt  a 
sense  of  relief  at  iiaving  done  something,  but 
this  gave  way  to  renewed  anxiety  as  time  passed, 
and  they  did  not  appear.  At  length,  after  what 
seemed  an  age  to  the  suffering  girl,  John  re- 
turned, but  alone. 

"Have  you  not  found  her?"  Zillah  almost 
shrieked. 

"  No,  miss,"  said  the  man,  in  a  pitying  tone. 

"Then  why  did  you  come  back?"  she  cried. 
"Did  I  not  tell  you  to  go  on  till  you  met  her?" 

"I  went  as  far  as  I  could,  miss." 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked,  in  a  voice 
pitched  iiigh  with  terror. 

The  man  came  close  up  to  her,  sympathy  and 
sorrow  in  his  face. 

"Don't  take  on  so,  miss,"  said  he;  "and 
don't  be  downhearted.  I  dare  say  she  has  took 
the  road,  and  will  be  home  shortly ;  that  way  is 
longer,  you  know." 

"  No ;  she  said  she  would  come  by  the  shore. 
Why  did  you  not  go  on  till  you  met  her '?" 

"  Well,  miss,  I  went  as  far  as  Lovers'  Bay  ; 
but  the  tide  was  in,  and  I  could  go  no  farther." 

Zillah,  at  this,  turned  deadly  white,  and  would 
have  fallen  if  John  had  not  caught  her.  He 
planed  her  ou  the  sofa  and  called  JNIathilde. 

Zillah's  terror  was  not  without  cause.  Lovers' 
Bay  was  a  narrow  inlet  of  the  sea,  formed  by  two 
projecting  ])romont()ries.  At  low  tide  a  person 
could  walk  beyond  those  ])roniontories  along  the 
shore  ;  but  at  high  tide  the  water  ran  up  within  ; 
and  there  was  no  standing  room  any  where 
within  the  indosure  of  the  precipitous  cliff.  At 
half  tide,  when  the  tide  was  falling,  one  might 
enter  here ;  but  if  the  tide  was  rising,  it  was  of 
course  not  to  be  attempted.  Several  times  stran- 
gers had  been  entrapped  here,  sometimes  with 
fatal  results.  The  place  owed  its  name  to  the 
tragical  end  which  was  met  with  here  by  a  lover 
who  was  eloping  with  his  lady.  They  Hed  by  the 
shore,  and  came  to  the  bay,  but  found  that  the 
rising  tide  had  made  the  passage  of  the  further 
ledge  impossible.  In  despair  the  lover  seized  the 
lady,  and  tried  to  swim  with  her  around  this  ob- 
stacle, but  the  waves  proved  stronger  than  love ; 
the  currents  bore  them  out  to  sea ;  and  the  next 
morning  their  bodies  were  found  floating  on  the 
water,  with  their  arms  still  clasped  around  one 
another  in  a  death  embrace.  Such  was  the  ori- 
gin of  the  name ;  and  the  place  had  always  been 
looked  upon  by  tlie  people  here  with  a  supersti- 
tious awe,  as  a  place  of  danger  and  death. 


The  time,  however,  was  one  which  demanded 
action ;  and  Zillah,  hastily  gulping  down  some 
restoratives  which  Mathilde  had  brought,  began 
to  take  measures  for  a  search. 

"John,"  said  she,  "you  must  get  a  boat,  and 
go  at  once  in  search  of  Miss  Lorton.  Is  there 
nowhere  any  standing  room  in  the  bay — no 
crevice  in  the  rocks  where  one  may  Bud  a  foot- 
hold?" 

"Not  with  these  spring-tides,  miss,"  said  John. 
"  A  man  might  cling  a  little  while  to  the  rocks ; 
but  a  weak  lady — "     John  hesitated. 

"  Oh,  my  (iod ! "  cried  Zillah,  in  an  agony  ; 
"she  may  be  clinging  there  now,  with  every  mo- 
ment lessening  her  chance !  Fly  to  the  nearest 
(ishermen,  John !  Ten  pounds  apiece  if  you  get 
to  the  bay  within  half  an  hour!  And  any  thing 
you  like  if  you  only  bring  her  back  safe!" 

Away  flew  John,  descending  the  rocks  to  the 
nearest  cottage.  There  he  breathlessly  stated 
his  errand  ;  and  the  sturdy  fisherman  and  his 
son  were  immediately  j)repared  to  start.  The 
boat  was  launched,  and  they  set  out.  It  was 
slightly  cloudy,  and  there  seemed  some  prospect 
of  a  storm.  Filled  with  anxiety  at  such  an  idea, 
and  also  inspired  with  enthusiasm  by  the  large 
reward,  they  put  forth  their  utmost  efforts ;  and 
the  boat  shot  through  the  water  at  a  most  un- 
wonted pace.  Twenty  minutes  after  the  boat 
had  left  the  strand  it  had  reached  the  bay.  All 
thought  of  mere  reward  faded  out  soon  from  the 
minds  of  these  honest  men.  They  only  thought 
of  the  young  lady  whom  they  bad  often  seen 
along  the  shore,  who  might  even  now  be  in  the 
jaws  of  death.  Not  a  word  was  spoken.  The 
sound  of  the  waves,  as  they  dashed  on  the  rocks, 
alone  broke  the  stillne.ss.  Trembling  with  ex- 
citement, they  swept  the  boat  close  around  the 
rocky  promontory.  John,  standing  uj)  in  the 
bow,  held  aloft  a  lantern,  so  that  every  cranny 
of  the  rocks  might  be  brought  out  into  full  relief. 
At  length  an  exclamation  burst  from  him. 

"  Oh,  Heavens !  she's  been  here ! "  he  groaned. 

The  men  turned  and  saw  in  his  hand  the  cov- 
ered basket  which  Hilda  always  took  with  her 
on  her  expeditions  to  bring  home  her  specimens. 
It  seemed  full  of  them  now. 

"Where  did  you  find  it?"  they  asked. 

"Just  on  this  here  ledge  of  rock." 

"  She  has  put  it  down  to  free  her  hands.  She 
mav  be  clinging  yet."  said  the  old  fisherman. 
"Let  us  call." 

A  loud  cry,  "Miss  Lorton !"  rang  through  the 
bay.  The  echo  sent  it  reverberating  back  ;  but 
no  human  voice  mingled  with  the  sound. 

Despondingly  and  fearfully  they  continued  the 
search,  still  calling  at  times,  until  at  last,  as  they 
reached  the  outer  ]ioint,  the  last  hope  died,  and 
they  ceased  calling. 

"  I'm  afeard  she's  gone,"  said  John. 

The  men  shook  their  heads.  John  but  ex- 
pressed the  general  opinion. 

"God  help  that  poor  young  thing  at  the  cot- 
tage!" said  the  elder  fisherman.  "She'll  be 
mighty  cut  up,  I  take  it,  now." 

"  They  was  all  in  all  to  each  other,"  said  John, 
with  a  sigh. 

By  this  time  they  had  rounded  the  jmint. 
Suddenly  John,  who  had  sat  down  again,  called 
out: 

"Stop!  I  see  something  on  the  water  yon- 
der!" 


ili,i  I 


:  \ 


66 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


'she  clutched  his   AUM   in   a  convulsive  0KA8P. 


It 


I.! 


I 


! 

■A 


The  men  looked  in  the  direction  where  he 
pointed,  and  a  small  object  was  visible  on  the 
surface  of  the  water.  They  quickly  rowed  to- 
ward it.  Tt  was  a  lady's  hat,  which  John  in- 
stantly recognized  as  Hilda's.  The  long  crape 
veil  seemed  to  have  caught  in  a  stake  which 
arose  from  the  sandy  beach  above  the  water, 
l)laced  there  to  mark  some  water  level,  and  the 
iiat  floated  there.  Reverently,  as  though  they 
were  touching  the  dead,  did  those  rough  men 
disentangle  the  folds,  and  lay  the  hat  on  the 
basket. 

"There  is  no  hope  now,"  said  the  younger 
fisherman,  after  a  solemn  silence.  "May  our 
dear  Lord  and  our  Hlessed  l^ady,"  he  added, 
crossing  himself  as  he  spoke,  "have  mercy  on 
her  soul!" 

"  Amen  I"  repented  the  others,  gently. 

"  However  shall  I  tell  my  poor  little  missis," 
said  John,  wiping  his  eyes. 

The  otiiers  made  no  response.  Soon  they 
reached  the  shore  again.  I'he  old  man  whis- 
liered  ft  few  words  to  his  son,  and  then  turned  to 
John : 

"  I  say,  comrade,"  said  he ;  "don't  let  her — " 
a  jerk  of  his  head  in  the  direction  of  the  cottage 
indicated  to  whom  the  ]>ronoun  referred — "don't 
let  her  give  us  that.     We've  done  naught  but 


what  we'd  have  done  for  any  poor  creature 
among  these  rocks.  We  coulcln't  take  pay  for 
this  night's  job — my  son  nor  me.  And  ail  we 
wish  is,  that  it  had  been  for  some  good ;  but  it 
wasn't  the  Lord's  will ;  and  it  aii  't  for  us  to  say 
nothin'  agin  that;  only  you'll  tell  your  miss.is, 
when  she  he's  a  bit  better,  that  we  made  bold  to 
send  her  our  respectful  sympathy." 

John  gave  this  promise  to  the  honest  fellows, 
and  then  went  slowly  and  sadly  back  to  make 
his  mournful  report. 

During  John's  absence  Zillah  had  been  wait- 
ing in  an  agony  of  suspense,  in  which  Mathilde 
made  feeble  efforts  to  console  her.  Wringing 
her  hands,  she  walked  up  and  down  in  front  of 
the  house ;  and  at  length,  when  she  heard  foot- 
steps coming  along  the  road,  she  rushed  in  that 
direction. 

She  recognized  John.  So  great  was  her  ex- 
citement that  she  could  not  utter  one  word.  She 
clutched  his  arm  in  a  convulsive  grasp.  John 
said  nothing.  It  was  easier  for  him  to  be  silent. 
In  fact  he  had  something  which  was  more  elo- 
quent than  words.  He  mournfully  held  out  the 
ba.-<ket  and  the  hat. 

In  an  instant  Zillah  recognized  them.  She 
shrieked,  and  fell  speechless  and  senseless  on  the 
hard  ground. 


THE  CRYPTOGKAM. 


87 


1  ill  that 

lier  ex- 
She 
John 
e  silent, 
ore  elo- 
uut  the 

I.     She 
on  the 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

AN    ASTOUNDING    LETTER. 

It  needed  but  this  new  cnluniity  to  rompleto 
the  sum  of  Ziiliili's  griefs.  Siie  liiul  suiiposed  tiiiit 
siie  liad  already  sutl'ered  as  much  us  she  could. 
The  loss  of  her  father,  the  loss  of  the  Eurl,  the 
«c])aration  from  Mre.  Hart,  were  each  successive 
(ituges  iu  tiie  descending  scale  of  her  calamities. 
Nor  was  the  least  of  these  that  Indian  letter  which 
had  sent  her  into  voluntary  banishment  from  her 
home.  It  was  not  till  all  was  over  that  she  learned 
how  completely  her  tiiuu^his  had  associated  them-  I 
selves  with  the  plans  ui'  the  Eurl,  and  how  in-  1 
sensibly  her  whole  future  hud  become  penetrated  ' 
with  plans  about  Guy.  The  overthrow  of  all 
this  was  bitter ;  but  tiiis,  and  all  otiier  griefs, 
were  forgotten  in  the  force  of  this  new  sorrow, 
which,  while  it  was  the  last,  was  in  reality  the 
grejitest.  Now,  for  tiie  first  time,  .she  felt  how 
tlear  Hilda  had  been  to  her.  She  had  been  more 
tiian  tt  friend  —  she  had  been  an  elder  sister. 
Now,  to  Zillaii's  affectionate  heart,  there  came 
tlie  recollection  of  all  the  jiatieiit  love,  the  kind 
forbearance,  and  the  wise  counsel  of  this  match- 
less friend.  Since  childhood  they  had  been  in- 
separalile.  Hilda  had  rivaled  even  her  doting 
father  iu  perfect  sidtmission  to  all  her  caprices, 
and  indulgence  of  all  her  whims.  Ziilah  had 
matured  so  rapidly,  and  hud  changed  so  com- 
pletely, that  she  now  looked  ujion  her  former  will- 
ful and  passionate  childhood  with  impatience, 
and  could  estimate  at  its  fidl  value  that  wonder- 
fid  meekness  with  which  Hilda  hud  endured  her 
wayward  and  imperious  mtture.  Not  one  recol- 
lection of  Hilda  came  to  her  but  was  full  of  in- 
cidents of  a  love  and  devotion  passing  the  love 
of  a  sister. 

It  was  now,  since  she  had  lost  her,  that  she 
learned  to  estimate  her,  as  she  thought,  at  her 
full  value.  That  loss  seemed  to  her  the  greatest 
of  all ;  worse  than  that  of  the  Earl ;  worse  even 
than  that  of  her  father.  Never  more  should  she 
ex])erience  that  tender  love,  that  wise  patience, 
that  unruffled  serenity,  which  she  had  al.  ays 
known  from  Hilda.  Never  more  should  she  pos- 
sess one  devoted  friend — the  true  and  tried  friend 
of  a  life — to  whom  she  might  go  iu  any  sorrow, 
and  know  and  feel  that  she  would  receive  the 
sympathy  of  love  and  the  counsel  of  wisdom. 
Nevermore — no,  nevermore!  Such  was  the  re- 
frain that  seemed  constantly  to  ring  in  her  ears, 
and  she  found  herself  murmuring  those  des|)air- 
iug  lines  of  I'oe,  where  the  solitary  word  of  the 
Kaven  seems 

"  Caught  from  some  unhappy  master  whom  nnmcr- 
clfiil  Disaster 
Followed  fast  and  followed  faster  till  his  songs  one 

burden  bore — 
Till  the  dirges  of  his  Hope  that  melancholy  burden 
bore 

Of  '  Never— nevermore !' " 

It  was  awful  to  her  to  be,  for  the  first  time  in 
her  life,  alone  in  the  world.  Hitherto,  amidst 
her  bitterest  afflictions,  she  had  always  had  some 
one  whom  she  loved.  After  her  father's  death 
she  had  Lord  Chetwynde  and  Mrs.  Hart ;  and 
with  these  she  always  had  Hilda.  But  now  all 
were  gone,  and  Hilda  was  gone.  To  a  passion- 
ate and  intense  nature  like  hers,  sorrow  was 
capable  of  giving  pangs  which  are  unknown  to 
colder  hearts,  and  so  she  suffered  to  a  degree 


which  was  commensurate  with  her  ardent  tem- 
perament. 

Weeks  passed  on  Recovering  from  the  first 
shock,  she  sank  into  a  state  of  dreamy  listless- 
ness,  which,  however,  was  at  times  interrupted 
by  some  wild  hopes  which  would  intrude  in  spite 
of  herself.  These  hopes  were  that  Hilda,  after 
all,  might  not  be  lost.  She  might  have  been 
found  by  some  one  and  carried  otf  somewhere. 
Wild  enough  were  these  hopes,  and  Zilluh  saw 
this  plainly,  yet  still  they  would  intrude.  Yet, 
far  from  proving  a  solace,  they  only  made  her 
situation  worse,  since  they  kept  her  in  a  state  of 
constant  suspense — a  suspense,  too,  which  had 
no  shadow  of  a  foundation  in  reason.  So,  alone, 
and  struggling  with  the  darkest  despair,  Zilluh 
passed  the  lime,  without  having  sufficient  energy 
of  mind  left  to  think  about  her  future,  or  the 
state  of  her  atl'airs. 

As  to  her  affairs — she  was  nothing  better  than 
a  child.  She  hud  a  vague  idea  that  she  was  rich ; 
but  she  had  no  idea  of  where  her  money  might 
be.  She  knew  the  names  of  her  London  agents ; 
bi;t  whether  they  held  any  funds  of  hers  or  not, 
she  could  not  tell.  She  took  it  for  granted  that 
they  did.  Child  us  she  was,  slie  did  not  know 
even  the  common  mode  of  drawing  a  check. 
Hilda  had  done  that  for  her  since  her  flight  from 
Chetwynde. 

The  news  of  the  unhappy  fate  of  the  elder 
Miss  Lorton  had  .sent  a  shock  through  the  quiet 
village  of  Tenby,  and  every  where  might  be  heard 
expressions  of  the  deepest  sympathy  with  the 
younger  sister,  who  seemed  so  gentle,  so  inno- 
cent, so  inexperienced,  and  so  affectionate.  All 
had  heard  of  the  anguish  into  which  she  had 
been  thrown  by  the  news  of  the  feurfid  calamity, 
and  a  respectful  commiseration  for  grief  so  great 
was  exhibited  bj'  all.  The  honest  fishermen  who 
had  gone  first  on  the  search  on  that  eventful 
night  had  not  been  satisfied,  but  early  on  the 
following  morning  had  roused  all  the  fishing  pop- 
ulation, and  fifty  or  sixty  bouts  started  ofi  be- 
fore dawn  to  scour  the  coast,  and  to  examine  the 
sea  bottom.  This  they  kept  uj)  for  two  or  three 
days ;  but  without  success.  Then,  at  last,  they 
gave  up  the  search.  Nothing  of  this,  however, 
was  known  to  Ziilah,  who,  at  that  particular 
time,  was  in  the  first  anguish  of  her  grief,  and 
lay  jirostrated  in  mind  and  body.  Even  the 
chattering  Mathildc  was  awed  by  the  solemnity 
of  woe. 

The  people  of  Tenby  were  nearly  all  of  the 
humbler  class.  The  widow  who  owned  the  house 
had  moved  away,  and  there  were  none  with  whom 
Ziilah  could  associate,  except  the  rector  and  his 
wife.  They  were  old  people,  and  had  no  chil- 
dren. The  Rev.  Mr.  Harvey  had  lived  there 
all  his  life,  and  was  now  well  advanced  in  years. 
At  the  first  tidings  of  the  mournful  event  he  had 
gone  to  Zillah's  house  to  see  if  he  could  be  of  any 
assistance ;  but  finding  that  she  was  ill  in  bed, 
he  had  sent  his  wife  to  offer  her  services.  Mrs. 
Harvey  had  watched  over  poor  Zilluh  in  her 
grief,  and  had  soothed  her  too.  Muthilde  would 
have  been  but  a  poor  nurse  for  one  in  such  a  sit- 
uation, and  Mrs.  Harvey's  motherly  care  and 
sweet  words  of  consolation  hud  something,  at 
least,  to  do  with  Zillah's  recoveiy. 

When  she  was  setter,  Mrs.  Harvey  urged  her 
to  come  and  stay  with  them  for  a  time.  It  would 
give  her  a  change  of  scene,  she  said,  and  that 


P! 


88 


THE  CRYPTOGUAM. 


was  iill-iin|)()rti»nt.  Zillah  was  deeply  touched 
by  her  iill'ectioiiute  8uUcitudo,  but  declined  to 
Icuvc  her  house.  She  felt,  she  said,  as  though 
solitude  would  bo  best  for  her  under  such  cir- 
cunistiinccs. 

"  My  dear  child,"  said  Mrs.  Harvey,  who  had 
formed  almost  a  niatcnml  atfection  for  Zillah, 
and  had  come  to  address  her  always  in  that 
way — "my  dear  child,  you  should  not  iry  to 
deepen  your  grief  iiy  staying  here  and  brooding 
over  it.  Kvery  thing  here  only  makes  it  worse. 
You  must  really  come  with  me,  if  for  only  a  few 
days,  and  see  if  your  distress  will  not  bo  light- 
oned  somewhat." 

lint  Zilhih  said  that  sho  could  not  bear  to 
leave,  that  the  house  seemed  lo  be  filled  with 
Hilda's  presence,  and  that  as  long  as  she  was 
there-  there  was  something  to  remind  her  of  the 
one  she  had  lost.  If  she  went  away  she  should 
only  long  to  go  back, 

"  Hut,  my  child,  would  it  not  be  better  for 
you  to  go  to  your  friends  V"  said  Mrs.  Harvey,  as 
delicately  as  jwssihlo. 

"  I  have  no  friends,"  said  Zillah,  in  a  falter- 
ing voice.     "They  are  all  gone." 

Zillah  burst  into  tears :  and  Mrs.  Harvey,  aft- 
er weeping  with  her,  took  her  departure,  with 
her  heart  full  of  fresh  sympathy  for  one  so  sweet, 
and  so  imhappy. 

Time  passed  on,  and  Zillah's  grief  had  settled 
down  into  a  (juiet  melancholy.  The  rector  and 
his  wife  were  faithful  friends  to  this  friendless 
girl,  and,  by  a  thousand  little  acts  of  S3'mpathy, 
strove  to  alleviate  the  distress  of  her  lonely  situ- 
ation. For  all  this  Zillah  felt  deeply  grateful, 
but  nothing  that  they  might  do  could  raise  her 
mind  from  the  depths  of  grief  into  which  it  had 
fallen.  But  at  length  there  came  a  day  which 
was  to  change  all  this. 

That  day  she  was  sitting  by  the  front  window 
in  the  alcove,  looking  out  to  where  the  sea  was 
rolling  in  its  waves  upon  the  shore.  Suddenly, 
to  her  surprise,  she  saw  the  village  jrastman,  who 
had  been  ])assing  along  the  road,  open  her  gate, 
and  come  up  the  path.  Her  first  thought  was 
that  her  concealment  had  been  discovered,  and 
that  Guy  had  written  to  her.  Then  a  wild 
thought  followed  that  it  was  somehow  connected 
with  Hilda.  But  soon  these  thoughts  were  ban- 
ished by  the  supposition  that  it  was  simply  a  note 
for  one  of  the  servants.  After  this  she  fell  into 
her  former  melancholy,  when  suddenly  she  was 
roused  by  the  entrance  of  John,  who  had  a  letter 
in  his  hand. 

"  A  letter  for  you,  miss,"  said  John,  who  had 
no  idea  that  Zillah  was  of  a  dignity  which  de- 
sen-ed  the  title  of  "my  lady." 

Zillah  said  not  a  word.  With  a  trembling 
hand  she  took  the  letter  and  looked  at  it. 

It  was  covered  with  foreign  post-marks,  but 
this  she  did  not  notice.  It  was  the  handwriting 
which  excited  her  attention. 

"  Hilda!"  she  cried,  and  sank  back  breathless 
in  her  chair.  Her  heart  throbbed  as  tiiough  it 
would  burst.  For  a  moment  she  could  not  move ; 
but  then,  with  a  violent  effort,  she  tore  open  the 
letter,  and,  in  a  wild  fever  of  excited  feeling,  read 
the  following : 

"Naples,  JuTi(!l,lS.'>9. 

"My  own  dkarest  Dauiisg, — What  you 
must  have  suffered  in  the  way  of  wonder  about 
my  sudden  disappearance,  and  also  in  anxiety 


about  your  poor  Hilda,  I  can  not  imagine.  I 
know  that  you  love  me  dearly,  and  for  mo  to 
vainsh  from  your  sight  so  suddenly  and  so 
strangely  must  have  caused  you  at  least  miiia 
sorrow.  If  you  huri:  been  sorrowing  for  me, 
my  sweetest,  do  not  do  so  any  more.  I  am  safe 
and  almost  well,  though  I  have  had  a  strango 
experience. 

"When  I  left  you  on  that  ill-fated  evening,  I 
expected  to  be  back  as  I  said.  I  walked  up  (lu; 
beach  thoughtlessly,  and  did  not  notice  the  tide 
or  any  thing  about  it,  I  walked  a  long  distance, 
and  at  last  felt  tired,  for  I  had  done  a  great  de:il 
that  day,  I  hajipened  to  see  a  i)oat  drawn  up  on 
the  shore,  and  it  seemed  to  be  a  good  place  to  sit 
down  and  rest.  I  jumped  in  and  sat  down  on 
one  of  the  seats.  I  took  oft'  my  hat  aiul  scarf, 
and  luxuriated  in  the  fresh  sea  breeze  that  was 
blowing  over  the  water.  I  do  not  know  how 
hing  I  sat  there — I  did  not  think  of  it  at  that 
time,  but  at  last  I  was  roused  from  my  pleasant 
occupation  very  suddenly  and  |iainfully.  All  at 
once  I  made  the  discovery  that  the  boat  wan 
movinif  under  me.  I  looked  around  in  a  panic. 
To  my  horror,  I  fotmd  that  I  was  at  a  long  distance 
from  the  shore.  In  an  instant  the  truth  flashed 
upon  me.  The  tide  had  risen,  the  boat  had 
floated  off,  and  I  had  not  noticed  it.  I  was  fully 
a  mile  away  when  I  made  this  discovery,  and, 
cool  as  I  am  (arcnrdim)  to  i/ou),  I  assure  you  I 
nearly  died  of  terror  when  the  full  reality  of  my 
situation  occurred  to  me.  I  looked  all  around, 
but  saw  no  chance  of  help.  Far  away  on  the 
horizon  I  saw  numerous  sails,  and  nearer  to  mo 
I  saw  a  steamer,  but  all  were  too  distant  to  be 
of  any  service.  On  the  shoro  I  could  not  see  a 
living  soul, 

"After  a  time  I  rallied  from  my  panic,  and 
began  to  try  to  get  the  boat  back.  But  there 
were  no  oars,  although,  if  there  had  been,  I  do 
not  see  how  I  could  have  used  them.  In  my 
desperate  ett'orts  I  tried  to  paddle  with  my  hands, 
but,  of  com'se,,  it  was  utterly  useless.  In  sjiito 
of  all  my  efforts  I  drifted  away  furtlier  and  fur- 
ther, and  after  a  very  long  time,  I  do  not  know 
how  long.  I  found  that  I  was  at  an  immense  dis- 
tance from  the  shore.  Weakene<l  by  anxiety 
and  fear,  and  worn  out  by  my  long-continued 
ef^'orts,  I  gave  up,  and,  sitting  down  again,  I 
burst  into  a  passion  of  tears.  The  day  was  pass- 
ing on.  Looking  at  the  sun  I  saw  that  it  was 
tho  time  when  you  would  be  expecting  me  back. 
I  thought  of  you,  my  darling,  waiting  for  ino — 
expecting  me — wondering  at  my  delay.  How  I 
cursed  my  folly  and  thoughtlessness  in  ever  ven- 
turing into  such  danger!  I  thought  of  your  in- 
creasing anxiety  as  you  waited,  while  still  I  did 
not  come.  I  thought.  Oh,  if  she  only  knew 
where  her  poor  Hilda  is — what  agony  it  would 
give  her !  But  such  thoughts  were  heart-break- 
ing, and  at  last  I  dared  not  entertain  them,  and 
so  I  tried  to  turn  my  attention  to  the  misery  of 
my  situation.  Ah,  my  dearest,  think — only  think 
of  me,  your  poor  Hilda,  in  that  boat,  drifting 
helplessly  along  over  the  sea  out  into  the  ocean ! 

"  With  each  moment  my  anguish  grew  great- 
er. I  saw  no  prospect  of  esca])e  or  of  help.  No 
ships  came  near;  no  boats  of  any  kind  were  vis- 
ible. I  strained  my  eyes  till  they  ached,  but 
could  see  nothing  that  gave  me  hope.  Oh,  my 
darling,  how  can  I  tell  you  the  miseries  of  that 
fearful  time !     Worse  than  all,  do  what  I  might, 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


89 


-It— :-=■  T-x^ 


.--i^ag:- 


2?«v 


DKIFTIMQ  OUT  TO  SEA. 


I  Still  could  not  keep  awnj  from  me  the  thoughts 
of  you,  my  sweetest.  S'.ill  they  would  come — 
and  never  could  I  shakj  otf  the  thought  of  your 
face,  pale  with  loving  anxiety,  as  you  waited  for 
that  friend  of  yours  who  would  never  appear. 
Oh,  had  you  seen  me  as  1  was — had  you  but 
imagined,  even  in  the  faintest  way,  the  horrors 
that  surrounded  me,  what  would  have  been  your 
feelings !  But  you  could  never  have  conceived 
it.  No.  Had  you  conceived  it  you  would  have 
sent  every  one  forth  in  search  of  me. 

"To  add  to  my  grief,  night  was  coming  on. 
I  saw  the  sun  go  down,  and  still  there  was  no 
prospect  of  escape.  I  was  cold  and  wretched, 
and  my  physical  sufferings  were  added  to  those 
of  my  mind.  Somehow  I  had  lost  my  hat  and 
scarf  overboard.  1  had  to  endure  the  chill  wind 
that  swept  over  me,  the  damp  piercing  blast  that 
came  over  the  waters,  without  any  possibility  of 
shelter.  At  last  I  grew  so  cold  and  benumbed 
that  I  lay  down  in  the  bottom  of  the  boat,  with 
the  hope  of  getting  out  of  the  way  of  the  wind. 
It  was  indeed  somewhat  more  sheltered,  but  the 
shelter  at  best  was  but  slight.  I  had  nothing  to 
cover  myself  with,  and  my  misery  was  extreme. 

"The  twilight  increased,  and  the  wind  grew 
stronger  and  colder.  Worst  of  all,  as  I  lay  down 
and  looked  up,  I  could  see  that  the  clouds  were 
gathering,  and  knew  that  there  would  be  a  storm. 
'  How  far  I  was  out  on  the  sea  I  scarcely  dared 
conjecture.  Indeed,  I  gave  myself  up  for  lost, 
and  had  scarcely  any  hope.  The  little  hope  that 
was  left  was  gradually  driven  away  by  the  gath- 
ering darkness,  and  at  length  all  around  me  was 
black.  It  was  night.  I  raised  myself  up,  and 
looked  feebly  out  upon  the  waves.  They  were 
all  hidden  from  my  sight.  I  fell  back,  and  lay 
there  for  a  long  time,  enduring  horrors,  which, 


in  my  wildest  dreams,  I  had  never  imagined  as 
liable  to  fall  to  the  lot  uf  any  miserable  human 
being. 

"I  know  nothing  more  of  that  night,  or  of 
several  nights  afterward.  When  I  came  back 
to  consciousness  I  found  myself  in  a  ship's  cab- 
in, and  was  completely  bewildered.  Gradually, 
however,  I  found  out  all.  This  ship,  which  wa.«t 
an  Italian  vessel  belonging  to  Naples,  and  was 
called  the  Vittoria,  had  ])icked  me  up  on  the 
morning  after  I  had  drifted  away.  I  was  uncon- 
scious and  delirious.  They  took  me  on  board, 
and  treated  me  with  the  greatest  kindness.  I'or 
the  tender  care  which  was  shown  me  by  these 
rough  but  kindly  hearts  Heaven  only  can  rejiay 
them ;  I  can  not.  But  when  I  had  recovered 
consciousness  several  days  had  elapsed,  the  ship 
was  on  her  way  to  Maples,  and  we  were  already 
off  the  coast  of  Portugal.  I  was  overwhelmed 
with  astonishment  and  grief.  Then  the  (|uestioii 
arose.  What  was  I  to  do  ?  The  captain,  who 
seemed  touched  to  the  heart  by  my  sorrow,  of- 
fered to  take  the  ship  out  of  her  course  and  land 
me  at  I/isbon,  if  I  liked ;  or  he  would  put  niu 
ashore  at  Gibraltar.  Miserable  me!  What  good 
would  it  do  for  me  to  be  landed  at  Lisbon  or  at 
Gibraltar  ?  Wide  .seas  would  still  inter\'ene  be- 
tween me  and  my  darling.  I  could  not  ask  them 
to  land  me  at  either  of  those  ])laces.  Besides, 
the  ship  was  going  to  Najjles,  ond  that  seemeil 
quite  as  near  as  Lisbon,  if  not  more  so.  It 
seemed  to  me  to  be  more  accessible — more  in  the 
line  of  travel — and  therefore  I  thought  that  by 
going  on  to  Naples  I  would  really  be  more  within 
your  reach  than  if  I  landed  at  any  intervening 
point.     8o  I  decided  to  go  on. 

"Poor  me!  Imagine  me  on  board  a  ship, 
with  no  change  of  clothing,  no  comforts  or  deli- 


.V 


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Photographic 

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Corporation 


23  WEST  MAIN  STREET 

WEBSTER,  N.Y.  14580 

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90 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


il 


M 


cacies  of  any  kind,  and  at  the  same  time  pros- 
trated by  sickness  arising  from  my  first  misery. 
It  was  a  kind  of  low  fever,  combined  with  de- 
lirium, that  affected  me.  Most  fortunately  for 
me,  the  captain's  wife  sailed  with  him,  and  to  her 
I  believe  my  recovery  is  due.  Poor  dear  Mar- 
garita! Her  devotion  to  rae  saved  me  from 
death.  I  gave  her  that  gold  necklace  that  I  have 
worn  from  childhood.  In  no  other  way  could  I 
fittingly  show  my  gratitude.  Ah,  my  darling! 
the  world  is  not  all  bad.  It  is  full  of  honest, 
kindly  hearts,  and  of  them  all  none  is  more  no- 
ble or  more  pure  than  my  generous  friend  the 
simple  wife  of  Captain  Gaddagli.  May  Heaven 
bless  her  for  her  kindness  to  the  poor  lost 
stranger  who  fell  in  her  way ! 

"My  sweet  Zillah,  how  does  all  this  read  to 
yon?  Is  it  not  wildly  improbable?  Can  you 
imagine  your  Hilda  floating  out  to  sea,  senseless, 
picked  up  by  strangers,  carried  off  to  foreign 
countries  ?  Do  you  not  rejoice  that  it  was  so, 
and  that  you  do  not  have  to  mourn  my  death  ? 
My  darling,  I  need  not  ask.  Alas !  what  would 
I  not  give  to  be  sitting  with  your  arms  around 
me,  supporting  my  aching  head,  while  I  told 
you  of  all  my  suffering  ? 

"  But  I  must  go  on.  My  exposure  during  that 
dreadful  night  had  told  fearfully  upon  me.  Dur- 
ing the  voyage  I  could  scarcely  move.  Toward 
its  close,  however,  I  was  able  to  go  on  deck,  and 
tiie  balmy  air  of  the  Mediterranean  revived  me. 
At  length  we  reached  Naples  Bay.  As  we  sailed 
up  to  the  city,  the  sight  of  all  the  glorious  scen- 
ery on  every  side  seemed  to  fill  me  with  new 
life  and  strength.  The  cities  along  the  shore, 
the  islands,  the  headlands,  the  mountains,  Vesu- 
vius, with  its  canopy  of  smoke,  the  intensely  blue 
f-ky,  the  clear  trans])arent  air,  all  made  me  feel 
as  though  I  had  been  transported  to  a  new  world. 

"  I  went  at  once  to  the  Hotel  de  I'Europe,  on 
the  Strada  Toledo.  It  is  the  best  hotel  here,  and 
is  very  comfortable.  Here  I  must  stay  for  a  time, 
for,  my  darling,  I  am  by  no  means  well.  The 
doctor  thinks  that  my  lungs  are  affected.  I  have 
a  very  bad  cough.  He  says  that  even  if  I  were 
able  to  travel,  I  must  not  think  of  going  home 
yet,  the  air  of  Naples  is  my  only  hope,  and  he 
tells  me  to  send  to  England  for  my  friends.  My 
friends  !  What  friends  have  I  ?  None.  But, 
darling,  I  know  that  I  have  a  friend — one  who 
would  go  a  long  distance  tor  her  poor  suffering 
Hilda.  And  now,  darling,  I  want  you  to  come 
on.  I  have  no  hesitation  in  asking  this,  for  I 
knov/  that  you  do  not  feel  particularly  ha])py 
where  you  are,  and  you  would  rather  be  with  me 
than  be  alone.  Besides,  my  dearest,  it  is  to  Na- 
jiles  that  I  invite  you — to  Naples,  the  fairest,  love- 
liest place  in  all  the  world !  a  heaven  upon  earth ! 
where  the  air  is  balm,  and  every  scene  is  perfect 
beauty !  You  must  come  on,  for  your  own  sake 
as  well  as  mine.  You  will  be  able  to  rouse  your- 
self from  your  melancholy.  We  will  go  together 
to  visit  the  sweet  scenes  that  lie  all  around  here ; 
and  when  I  am  again  by  your  side,  with  your 
hand  in  mine,  I  will  forget  that  I  have  ever 
suffered. 

"  Do  not  be  alanned  at  the  journey.  I  have 
thought  out  all  for  you.  I  have  written  to  Mr. 
Gualtier,  in  London,  and  asked  him  to  bring 
you  on  here.  He  will  be  only  too  glad  to  do  us 
this  service.  He  is  a  simple-minded  and  kind- 
hearted  man.     I  have  asked  him  to  call  on  you 


immediately  to  offer  his  services.  You  will  see 
him,  no  doubt,  very  soon  after  you  get  this  let- 
ter. Do  not  be  afraid  of  troubling  him.  We 
can  compensate  him  fully  for  the  loss  of  his  time. 

' '  And  now,  darling,  good-by.  I  have  written 
a  very  long  letter,  and  feel  very  tired.  Come  on 
soon,  and  do  not  delay.  I  shall  count  the  days 
and  the  hours  till  you  join  me.  Come  on  soon, 
and  do  not  disappoint  your  loving 

"Hilda. 

"P.S. — When  you  come,  will  you  please 
bring  on  my  turquoise  brooch  and  my  green 
bracelet.  Tlie  little  writing-desk,  too,  1  should 
like,  if  not  too  much  trouble.  Of  course  you 
need  not  trouble  about  the  house.  It  will  be 
quite  safe  as  it  stands,  under  the  care  of  your 
housekeeper  and  servants,  till  we  get  back  again 
to  England.     Once  more,  darling,  good-by. 

"II." 

This  astonishing  letter  was  read  by  Zillah  with 
a  tumult  of  emotions  that  may  be  imagined  but 
not  described.  As  she  finished  it  the  reaction  in 
her  feelings  was  too  much  to  be  borne.  A  weight 
was  taken  off  her  soul.  In  the  first  rush  of  her 
joy  and  thankfulness  she  burst  into  tears,  and 
then  once  more  read  the  letter,  though  she 
scarce  could  distinguish  the  words  for  the  tears 
of  joy  that  blinded  her  eyes. 

To  go  to  Naples — and  to  Hilda !  what  greater 
happiness  could  be  conceived  of?  And  that 
thoughtful  Hilda  had  actually  written  to  Gual- 
tier! And  she  was  alive!  And  she  was  in 
Naples !  What  a  wonder  to  have  her  thus  come 
back  to  her  from  the  dead ! 

With  such  a  torrent  of  confused  thoughts  Zil- 
lah's  mind  was  filled,  until  at  length,  in  her  deep 
gratitude  to  Heaven,  she  flung  herself  upon  her 
knees  and  poured  forth  her  soul  in  prayer. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

BETRAYED, 

Zillah's  excitement  was  so  great  that,  for  all 
that  night,  she  co>ild  not  sleep.  There  were  many 
things  for  her  to  think  about.  The  idea  that  Hil- 
da had  been  so  marvelously  rescued,  and  was  still 
alive  and  waiting  for  her,  filled  her  mind.  But 
it  did  not  prevent  her  from  dwelling  in  thought 
upon  the  frightful  scenes  through  which  she  had 
j)assed.  The  thought  of  her  dear  friend's  lonely 
voyage,  drifting  over  the  seas  in  an  open  boat, 
unprotected  from  the  storm,  and  suffering  from 
cold,  from  hunger,  and  from  sorrow  till  sense 
left  her,  was  a  painful  one  to  her  loving  heart. 
Yet  the  pain  of  tl.jse  thoughts  did  not  disturb 
her.  The  joy  that  arose  from  the  consciousness 
of  Hilda's  safety  was  of  itself  suflicient  to  coun- 
terbalance all  else.  Her  safety  was  so  unexpect- 
ed, and  the  one  fact  was  so  overwhelming,  that 
the  happiness  which  it  caused  was  sufficient  to 
overmaster  any  sorrowful  sympathy  which  she 
might  feel  for  Hilda's  misfortunes.  So,  if  her 
night  was  sleepless,  it  was  not  sad.  Rather 
it  was  joyful ;  and  often  and  often,  as  the  hours 
passed,  she  repeated  that  prayer  of  thankfulness 
which  the  first  perusal  of  the  letter  had  caused. 

Besides  this,  the  thought  of  going  on  to  join 
Hilda  was  a  pleasant  one.  Her  friend  had  been 
so  thoughtful  that  she  had  arranged  all  for  her. 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


91 


No  companion  could  be  more  appropriate  or 
more  reliable  than  Mr.  Gualtier,  and  he  would 
certainly  make  his  appearance  shortly.  She 
thought  also  of  the  pleasure  of  living  in  Naples, 
and  recalled  all  that  she  had  ever  heard  about 
the  charms  of  that  place.  Amidst  such  thoughts 
as  these  morning  came,  and  it  was  not  until  aft- 
er the  sun  had  risen  that  Zillah  fell  asleep. 

Two  days  after  tlie  receipt  of  that  letter  by 
Zillali,  Gualtier  arrived.  Although  he  had  been 
only  a  music-teacher,  yet  he  had  been  associated 
in  tlie  memory  of  Zillah  with  many  hapj)y  hours 
at  Chetwynde ;  and  his  instructions  at  Pomeroy 
Court,  tliougii  at  the  time  irksome  to  her,  were 
jiow  remembered  pleasantly,  since  they  were  con- 
nected with  the  memories  of  her  father;  and  on 
this  occasion  he  had  the  additional  advantage  of 
being  specially  sent  by  Hilda.  He  seemed  thus 
in  her  mind  to  be  in  some  sort  connected  with 
Hilda.  iShe  had  not  seen  him  since  the  Earl's 
illness,  and  bad  understood  from  Hilda  that  he 
had  gone  to  London  to  practice  his  profession. 

As  Gualtier  entered,  Zillah  greeted  him  with 
a  warmth  which  was  unusual  from  her  to  him, 
but  whicli  can  readily  be  accounted  for  under 
the  circumstances.  He  seemed  surprised  and 
pleased.  His  small  gray  eyes  twinkled,  and  his 
sallow  cheeks  flushed  with  involuntary  delight  at 
such  marks  of  condescension.  Yet  in  his  man- 
ner and  address  he  was  as  humble  and  as  sei"vile 
as  ever.  His  story  was  shortly  told.  He  had  re- 
ceived, he  said,  a  short  note  from  Miss  Krieff,  by 
which  he  learned  that,  owing  to  an  act  of  thought- 
lessness on  her  part,  she  had  gone  adrift  in  a  boat, 
and  had  been  jjicked  up  by  a  ship  on  its  way  to 
Naples,  to  which  idace  she  had  been  carried.  He 
understood  that  she  had  written  to  Lady  Chet- 
wynde to  come  and  join  her.  Gualtier  hoped 
that  Lady  Chetwynde  would  feel  the  same  con- 
fidence in  him  which  Miss  Krieff  had  expressed 
in  making  known  to  him  that  they  had  been  liv- 
ing under  an  assumed  name.  Of  course,  unless 
this  had  been  communicated  to  him  it  would 
have  been  im]X)Ssible  for  him  to  find  her.  He 
assured  her  that  with  him  her  secret  was  per- 
fectly inviolable,  that  he  was  perfectly  reliable, 
and  that  the  many  favors  which  he  had  received 
from  General  Pomeroy,  from  the  late  Earl,  and 
from  herself,  would  of  themselves  be  sufficient 
to  make  him  guard  her  secret  with  watchful 
vigilance,  and  devote  himself  to  her  interests 
with  the  utmost  zeal  and  fidelity. 

To  Zillah,  however,  the  voluble  assurances  of 
Gualtier's  vigilance,  secrecy,  and  fidelity  were 
quite  unnecessary.  It  was  enough  that  she  had 
known  him  for  so  many  years.  Her  father  had 
first  made  him  known  to  her.  After  him  her 
second  father.  Earl  Chetwynde,  had  made  him 
her  teacher.  Last  of  all,  at  this  great  hour  in 
her  life,  Hilda  herself  had  sent  him  to  accom- 
pany her.  It  would  have  been  strange  indeed 
if,  under  such  circumstances,  any  doui)t  what- 
ever with  regard  to  him  had  for  one  moment  en- 
tered her  mind. 

On  the  day  after  the  receipt  of  Hilda's  letter 
Zillah  had  gone  for  the  first  time  to  the  rectory, 
and  told  the  jcyful  news  to  her  kind  friends 
there.  She  read  the  letter  to  them,  while  they 
listened  to  every  word  with  breathless  interest, 
often  interrupting  her  with  exclamations  of  pity, 
of  sympathy,  or  of  wonder.  Most  of  all  were 
they  aU'ected  by  the  change  which  had  come  over 


Zillah,  who  in  one  night  had  passed  from  dull 
despair  to  life  and  joy  and  hope.  She  seemed 
to  them  now  a  different  being.  Her  face  was 
flushed  with  excitement;  her  deep,  dark  eyes, 
no  longer  downcast,  flashed  with  radiant  joy; 
her  voice  was  tremulous  as  she  read  the  letter, 
or  spoke  of  her  hope  of  soon  rejoining  Hilda. 
These  dear  old  people  looked  at  her  till  their 
eyes  filled  with  tears ;  tears  which  were  half  of 
joy  over  her  ha])piness,  and  half  of  sadness  at 
the  thought  that  she  was  to  leave  them. 

"Ah,  my  child,"  said  Mrs.  Harvey,  in  a 
tremulous  voice,  "  how  glad  I  am  that  your 
dear  sister  has  been  saved  by  our  merciful  God  ; 
but  how  sad  I  feel  to  tliink  that  I  shall  lose  you 
now,  when  I  have  come  to  love  you  so!" 

Her  voice  had  such  inexpressible  sadness,  and 
such  deep  and  true  affection  in  its  tones,  that 
Zillah  was  touched  to  the  heart.  She  twined 
her  arms  fondly  about  the  neck  of  the  old  lady, 
and  kissed  her  tenderly. 

"Ah,  my  dearest  Mrs.  Hars-ey,"  said  she, 
' '  how  can  I  ever  repay  you  for  all  your  loving 
care  of  me!  Do  not  think  that  I  did  not  see  all 
and  feel  all  that  you  did  for  me.  Hut  I  was  so 
sad." 

"But,  my  poor  child,"  said  the  rector,  after 
a  long  conversation,  in  which  they  had  exhaust- 
ed all  the  possibilities  of  Hilda's  "sitiuition," 
"  this  is  a  long  journey.  Who  is  this  Mr.  Gual- 
tier? Do  you  know  him?  Would  it  not  be 
better  for  me  to  go  with  you?" 

"Oh,  my  kind  friend,  how  good  you  are!" 
said  Zillah,  again  overwhelmed  with  gratitude. 
"But  there  is  no  necessity.  I  have  known  Mr. 
Gualtier  for  years.  He  was  my  music-teacher 
for  a  long  time  before  my  dear  ftither  left  me. 
He  is  very  good  and  very  faithful." 

So  no  more  was  said  on  that  matter. 

Before  Gualtier  came  Zillah  had  arranged  ev- 
ery thing  for  her  journey.  She  decided  to  leave 
the  house  just  as  it  was,  under  the  care  of  the 
housekeeper,  with  the  expectation  of  returning 
at  no  very  distant  date.  The  rector  promised 
to  exercise  a  general  supervision  over  her  af- 
fairs. She  left  with  him  money  enough  to  pay 
the  year's  rent  in  advance,  which  he  was  to 
transmit  to  the  owner.  Such  arrangements  as 
these  gave  great  comfort  to  these  kindly  souls, 
for  in  them  they  saw  signs  that  Zillah  would  re- 
turn ;  and  they  both  hoped  that  the  "sisters'" 
would  soon  tire  even  of  Italy,  and  in  a  fit  of 
homesickness  come  back  again.  With  this  hope 
they  bade  her  adieu. 

(Jn  leaving  Tenby,  Zillah  felt  nothing  but  de- 
light. As  the  coach  drove  her  to  the  station,  as 
the  railway  train  hurried  her  to  London,  as  the 
tidal  train  took  her  to  Southampton,  as  the  pack- 
et bore  her  across  the  Channel,  every  moment  of 
the  time  was  filled  with  joyous  an''cii)ations  of 
her  meeting  Hilda.  All  her  griefs  over  other 
losses  and  other  calamities  had  in  one  instant 
faded  away  at  the  news  that  Hilda  was  safe. 
That  one  thing  was  enough  to  comjjcnsate  for 
all  else. 

Arriving  at  Paris,  she  was  compelled  to  wait 
for  one  day  on  account  of  some  want  of  connec- 
tion in  the  trains  for  Marseilles.  Gualtier  acted 
as  cicerone,  and  accompanied  her  in  a  carriage 
through  the  chief  streets,  through  the  Place  do 
la  Concorde,  the  Champs  Elyse'es,  and  ihe  Bois 
de  Boulogno.    She  was  sufficiently  herself  to  ex- 


92 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


peiience  delight  in  spite  of  her  impatience,  and 
to  feel  the  wonder  and  admiraiion  which  the 
first  sight  of  that  gay  and  splendid  capital  al- 
ways excites.  But  she  was  not  willing  to  linger 
here.  Naples  was  the  goal  at  which  si  e  wished 
to  arrive,  and  as  soon  as  possible  she  hurried 
onward. 

On  reaching  Marseilles  she  found  the  city 
crowded.  'J"he  great  movements  of  the  Italian 
war  were  going  on,  and  every  thing  was  af- 
fected by  it.  Marseilles  was  one  of  the  grand 
centres  of  action,  and  one  of  the  chief  depots  for 
military  supplies.  The  city  was  filled  with  sol- 
diers. The  harbor  was  fidl  of  transports.  The 
streets  were  thronged  with  representatives  of  all 
the  different  regiments  of  the  French  army, 
from  the  magnificent  steel-clad  Cuirassiers,  and 
the  dashing  C'hasseurs  de  Vincennes,  to  the  in- 
souciant Zouaves  and  the  wild  Turcos.  In  ad- 
dition to  ihe  military,  the  city  was  filled  with 
civil  officials,  connected  with  the  dispatch  of  the 
army,  who  filled  the  city,  and  rendered  it  ex- 
tremely difficult  for  a  stranger  to  find  lodgings. 

Zillah  was  taken  to  the  Hotel  de  France,  but 
it  was  full.  Gualtier  went  round  to  all  the  other 
hotels,  but  returned  with  the  unpleasant  intelli- 
gence that  all  were  likewise  filled.  But  this  did 
not  very  greatly  disturb  Zillah,  for  she  hoped  to 
be  on  board  the  steamer  soon,  and  whether  she 
found  lodgings  or  not  was  a  matter  of  indiffer- 
ence to  her  in  comparison  with  prosecuting  her 
journey.  After  several  hours  Gualtier  returned 
once  more,  with  the  information  that  he  had  suc- 
ceeded in. finding  rooms  for  her  in  this  hotel. 
He  had  made  an  earnest  appeal,  he  said,  to  the 
gallantry  of  some  French  officers,  and  they  had 
given  up  their  rooms  for  the  use  of  the  fair  An- 
glaise.  It  was  thus  that  Zillah  was  able  to  se- 
cure accommodation  for  the  night. 

All  that  evening  Gualtier  spent  in  searching 
for  the  Naples  steamer.  When  he  made  his  ap- 
pearance on  the  following  morning  it  was  with 
news  that  was  very  unpleasant  to  Zillah.  He 
informed  her  that  the  regular  steamers  did  not 
run,  that  they  had  been  taken  up  by  the  French 
government  as  transports  for  the  troops,  and, 
as  far  as  he  could  learn,  there  were  no  provisions 
whatever  for  carrying  the  mails.  He  could 
scarcely  think  it  possible  that  such  should  be  the 
case,  but  so  it  was. 

At  this  intelligence  Zillnh  was  aghast. 

"No  mail  steamers?"  said  she.  "  Impossi- 
])le !  Even  if  they  had  taken  up  all  of  them  for 
transports,  something  would  be  put  on  the  route." 

"  I  can  assure  you,  my  lady,  that  it  is  as  I 
said.  I  have  searched  every  where,  and  can 
not  find  out  any  thing,"  said  Gualtier. 

"  You  need  not  address  me  by  my  title,"  said 
Zillah.  "At  present  I  do  not  choose  to  adopt 
it." 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Gualtier,  humbly.  "It 
is  taken  for  granted  in  France  that  every  wealthy 
English  lady  is  titled — every  French  hotel-keep- 
er will  call  you  'miladi,'  and  why  should  not  I  ? 
It  is  only  a  form." 

"Well,"  said  Zillah,  "let  it  pass.  But  what 
am  I  to  do  here  ?  I  must  go  on.  Can  I  not  go 
byhnd?" 

"  You  forget,  my  lady,  the  war  in  Lombardy." 

"But  I  tell  you,  I  fiir.st  go  on," said  Zillah, 
impatintly.  "Cost  what  it  may — even  if  I 
have  to  buy  a  steamer." 


Gualtier  smiled  faintly. 

"Even  if  you  wished  to  buy  a  steamer,  my 
lady,  you  could  not.  The  French  government 
has  taken  up  all  for  transports.  Could  you  not 
make  up  your  mind  to  wait  for  a  few  days  ?" 

"A  few  days!"  cried  Zillah,  in  tones  of  de- 
spair— "a  few  days!  What!  after  hurrying 
here  through  France  so  rapidly !  A  few  days ! 
No.  I  would  rather  go  to  tSpain,  and  catch  the 
steamer  at  Gibraltar  that  Miss  Kriett' spoke  of." 

Gualtier  smiled. 

"That  would  take  much  longer  time,"  said 
he.  "But,  my  lady,  I  will  go  out  again,  and 
see  if  1  can  not  '■  .d  some  way  more  expeditious 
than  that.  Trust  to  me.  It  will  ));>  strange  if  I 
do  not  find  some  way.  Would  you  be  willing  to 
go  in  a  sailing  vessel  ?" 

"Of  course,"  said  Zillah,  without  hesitation. 
"If  nothing  else  can  be  found  I  shall  be  only 
too  happy." 

Upon  this,  Gualtier  departed  with  the  inten- 
tion of  searching  for  a  sailing  vessel.  Zillah  her- 
self would  have  been  willing  to  go  in  any  thing. 
Such  was  her  anxiety  to  get  to  Hilda,  that  rath- 
er than  stay  in  Marseilles  she  would  have  been 
willing  to  start  for  Naples  in  an  open  boat.  But 
on  mentioninc  her  situation  to  Mathilde  she  en- 
countered, to  her  surprise,  a  very  energetic  op- 
position. That  important  personage  expressed 
a  very  strong  repugnance  to  any  thing  of  the 
kind.  First,  she  dreaded  a  sea  voyage  in  a  sail- 
ing vessel ;  and  secondly,  having  got  back  to 
France,  she  did  not  wish  to  leave  it.  If  the  reg- 
ular mail  vessel  had  been  going  she  might  not 
have  objected,  but  as  it  was  she  did  not  wish  to 
go.  Mathilde  was  very  voluble,  and  very  de- 
termined ;  but  Zillah  troubled  herself  very  little 
about  this.  To  get  to  Hilda  was  her  one  and 
only  desire.  If  Mathilde  stood  in  the  way  she 
would  go  on  in  spite  of  her.  !She  was  willing  to 
let  Mathilde  go,  and  set  out  unattended.  To 
get  to  Naples,  to  join  Hilda,  whether  in  a  steam- 
er or  a  sailing  vessel — whether  with  a  maid  or 
without  one — that  was  her  only  puri)ose. 

On  the  following  morning  Gualtier  made  his 
appearance,  with  the  announcement  that  he  had 
found  a  vessel.  It  was  a  small  schooner  which 
had  been  a  yacht  belonging  to  an  Englishman, 
who  had  sold  it  at  Marseilles  for  some  reason  or 
other  to  a  merchant  of  the  city.  This  mer- 
chant was  willing  to  sell  it,  and  Gualtier  had 
bought  it  in  her  name,  as  he  could  find  no  other 
way  of  going  on.  The  price  was  large,  but  "  my 
lady"  had  said  that  she  was  willing  to  buy  a 
steamer,  and  to  her  it  would  be  small.  He  had 
ventured,  thevefore,  to  conclude  the  bargain. 
He  had  done  more,  and  had  even  engaged  a 
crew,  so  that  all  was  in  readiness  to  start. 

At  this  news  Zillah  was  overjoyed.  Her  long- 
ing to  be  with  Hilda  was  so  great  that  even  if 
she  had  been  a  miser  she  would  have  willingly 
paid  the  ])rice  demanded,  and  far  more.  The 
funds  which  she  had  brought  with  her,  and  which 
Gualtier  had  kindly  taken  charge  of,  amounted 
to  a  considerable  sum,  and  afforded  ample  means 
for  the  purchase  of  the  vessel.  The  vessel  was 
therefore  regularly  purchased,  and  Zillah  at  last 
saw  a  way  by  which  she  could  once  more  pro- 
ceed on  her  journey.  Gualtier  informed  her 
that  the  remainder  of  that  day  would  be  needed 
for  the  completion  of  the  preparations,  and  that 
they  would  be  ready  to  leave  at  an  early  hour 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


93 


on  the  following  morning.      So  Zillah  awaited 
with  imi)atieni'e  the  appointed  time. 

Zillah  awaked  early  on  the  following  morning, 
but  Mathilde  was  not  to  be  found.  Instead  of 
Mathilde,  a  letter  was  awaiting  her,  which  stated, 
in  very  respectful  language,  that  the  dread  which 
that  personage  felt  at  going  in  a  sailing  vessel 
was  so  strong,  and  her  love  for  her  own  dear 
country  so  great,  that  she  had  decided  to  remain 
where  she  was.  She  therefore  liiul  come  to  the 
conclusion  to  leave  "  miladi"  without  giving 
Avarning,  although  she  would,  thereby  lose  what 
was  due  her,  and  she  hoped  that  "  miladi"  would 
forgive  her,  and  boar  her  in  affectionate  remem- 
brance. With  wishes  and  prayers  for  "  miladi's" 
future  happiness,  Mathilde  begged  leave  to  sub- 
scribe herself  "miladi's"  most  devoted  and  grate- 
ful servant. 

iSuch  was  the  final  message  of  Mathilde  to  her 
indulgent  mistress.  But,  although  at  any  other 
time  Zillah  would  have  been  both  wounded  and 
indignant  at  such  desertion  of  her  at  such  a  time, 
yet  now,  in  the  r  ^  engrossing  thought  that 
hlled  her  mind,  she  thought  but  little  of  this  in- 
cident. At  Naples,  she  thought,  she  could  very 
easily  fill  her  place.  Now  she  would  have  to  be 
without  a  maid  for  two  or  three  days,  but  after 
all  it  would  make  no  very  great  difference.  She 
could  rely  upon  herself,  and  endure  a  few  days' 
discomfort  very  readily  for  Hilda's  sake.  It  was 
with  such  feelings  as  these  that  she  awaited  the 
arrival  of  Gualtier.  When  he  came,  and  heard 
of  the  departure  of  Mathilde,  he  appeared  to  be 
filled  with  indignation,  and  urged  Zillah  to  wait 
one  day  more  till  he  could  get  another  maid  for 
her.  But  Zillah  refused.  She  was  determined 
to  go  on,  and  insisted  on  starting  at  once  for  the 
yacht.  Finding  his  remonstrances  unavailing, 
the  faithful  Gualtier  conducted  her  to  the  schoon- 
er, and,  as  all  things  were  in  readiness,  they  put 
out  to  sea  immediately. 

The  schooner  was  a  very  handsome  one,  and 
on  looking  over  it  ^illah  felt  delighted  with  Gual- 
tier's  good  taste,  or  his  good  fortune,  whichever 
it  might  have  been.    It  was,  as  has  been  said,  a 
yacht,  which  had  been  the  property  of  an  English- 
man who  had  soil  it  at  Marseilles.     The  cabin 
was  fitted  up  in  the  most  elegant  style,  and  was 
much  more  roomy  than  was  common  in  vessels 
of  that  size.     There  was  an  outer  cabin  with  a 
table  in  the  middle  and  sofas  on  either  side, 
and  an  inner  cabin  with  capacious  berths.     The 
watchful  attention  of  Gualtier  was  visible  all 
around.    There  were  baskets  of  rare  fruits,  boxes 
of  bonbons,  and  cake-baskets  filled  with  delicate 
macaroons  and  ratafias.     There  were  also  sev-  j 
eral  books — volumes  of  the  works  of  Lamartine  ! 
and  Chateaubriand,  together  with  two  or  three  i 
of  the  latest  English  novels.     He  certainly  had  i 
been  particular  to  the  last  degree  in  attending  to 
all  of  her  possible  wants. 

After  i...-,pecting  the  arrangements  of  the  cabin, 
Zillah  went  out  on  deck  and  seated  herself  at  the 
stern,  from  whRh  she  watched  the  city  which 
they  were  fast  leaving  behind  them.  On  casti.ig 
a  casual  glance  around,  it  struck  her  for  a  mo- 
ment that  the  crew  were  a  remarkably  ill-looking 
set  of  men ;  but  she  was  utterly  inexperienced, 
and  she  concluded  that  they  were  like  all  sailors, 
and  should  not  be  judged  by  the  same  standard 
as  landsmen.  Besides,  was  not  her  faithful 
Gualtier  there,  whose  delicate  attention  was  so 


evident  even  in  the  most  minute  circumstance 
which  she  had  noticed  ?  If  the  thought  of  the 
evil  looks  of  the  crew  came  to  her,  it  was  but  for 
a  moment ;  and  in  a  moment  it  was  dismissed. 
She  was  herself  too  gi  ileless  to  be  suspicious, 
and  was  far  more  ready  lO  cast  from  her  all  evil 
thoughts  than  to  entertain  them.  In  her  inno- 
cence and  inexperience  she  was  bold,  when  one 
more  brave  but  more  experienced  would  have 
been  fearful. 

The  wind  was  fair,  and  the  yacht  glided  swift- 
ly out  of  the  harbor.  The  sea  was  smooth,  and 
Zillah  could  look  all  around  her  upon  the  glori- 
ous scene.  In  a  few  hours  they  had  left  the  land 
far  behind  them,  and  then  the  grander  features 
of  the  distant  coast  became  more  plainly  visible. 
The  lofty  heights  rose  up  above  the  sea  reced- 
ing backward,  but  ever  rising  higher,  till  they 
reached  the  Alpine  summits  of  the  inland.  AJl 
around  was  the  blue  Mediterranean,  dotted  with 
white  sails.  All  that  she  saw  was  novel  and 
striking ;  she  had  never  sailed  in  a  yacht  before ; 
the  water  was  smooth  enough  to  i)e  ])leasant, 
and  she  gave  herself  up  to  a  childlike  joy. 

On  rising  on  the  following  morning  they  were 
far  out  of  sight  of  land.  A  delicious  repast  was 
])laced  before  her  for  her  breakfast.  After  par- 
taking she  sat  on  deck,  looking  out  upon  the 
glorious  sea,  with  such  a  feeling  of  dreamy  en- 
joyment as  she  had  scarcely  ever  known  before. 
Her  one  chief  thought  was  that  every  hour  was 
bringing  her  nearer  to  Hilda.  When  tired  of  the 
deck  she  went  below,  and  lay  down  in  her  cabin 
and  read.  So  the  hours  passed.  On  that  day 
Gualtier  surpassed  himself  in  delicate  attention 
to  every  possible  wish  of  hers.  She  herself  was 
surprised  at  the  variety  of  the  dishes  which  com- 
posed her  dinner.  She  could  not  help  express- 
ing her  thanks. 

Gualtier  smiled,  and  murmured  some  scarce 
audible  words. 

Two  days  passed,  and  they  were  now  far  on 
their  way.  Gualtier  assured  her  respectfully  that 
on  the  following  morning  they  would  see  the  Ap- 
ennines on  the  Italian  shore.  The  voyage  had 
not  been  so  rapid  as  it  might  have  bean,  but  it 
had  been  exceedingly  pleasant  weati;er,  and  their 
progress  had  been  satisfactory.  Thr.t  evening 
Zillah  watched  the  sun  as  it  set  in  glory  below 
the  Avatery  horizon,  and  retired  for  the  night  with 
the  thought  that  in  two  days  more  she  would  be 
with  Hilda. 

She  slept  soundly  that  night. 

Suddenly  she  waked  with  a  strange  sensation. 
Her  dreams  had  been  troubled.  She  thought 
that  she  was  drowning.  In  an  agony  she  started 
up.  Water  was  all  around  her  in  the  berth 
where  she  was  lying.  The  dim  light  of  dawn 
was  struggling  through  the  sky-liglit,  and  she 
looked  around  bewildered,  not  knowing  at  first 
where  she  was.  Soon,  however,  she  remembered, 
and  then  a  great  horror  came  over  her.  The 
vessel  was  si/ikiiiff  ! 

All  was  still.  She  gave  a  wild  cry,  and  started 
up,  wading  through  the  water  to  the  door.  She 
cried  again  and  again,  till  her  cries  became 
shrieks.  In  vain.  No  answer  came.  Flinging 
a  shawl  around  her  she  went  into  the  outer  cabin, 
and  thence  ascended  to  the  deck. 

No  one  was  there. 

No  man  wns  at  the  wheel.  No  watchers  were 
visible.     The  vessel  was  deserted ! 


^m£ 


pp 


■^ 


04 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


AN   AWFUL   FEAR  CAHK  OVKR   HER. 


Louder  and  louder  she  shrieked.  Her  voice, 
borne  nfiir  over  the  wide  waste  of  waters,  died 
out  in  the  dijtance,  but  brought  no  response. 
She  hurried  to  the  forecastle.  The  door  was 
open.  She  called  over  and  over  again.  There 
was  no  reply.  Looking  down  in  the  dim  morn- 
ing twilight  she  could  see  plainly  that  the  water 
had  penetrated  there. 

An  awful  fear  came  over  her. 

Tiie  sails  were  lowered.  The  boat  was  gone. 
No  one  was  on  board  besides  herself.  The  schoon- 
er was  sinking.  She  had  been  deserted.  She 
had  been  betrayed.  She  would  never  see  Hilda. 
Who  had  betrayed  her?  Was  Hilda  really  at 
Naples  ?    Had  she  really  written  that  letter  and 


sent  Gualtier  to  her  ?    A  thousand  horrid  sus- 
picions rushed  through  her  mind.     One  thought 
predominated — she  had  been  betrayed/ 
But  why  ? 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

TWO   NEW   CHARACTERS. 

In  spite  of  Gualtier's  assurances,  a  steamer 
was  running  regularly  between  Naples  and  Mar- 
seilles, and  the  war  had  made  no  disturbance  in 
the  promptitude  and  dispatch  of  its  trips.  It  be- 
longed to  a  line  whose  ships  went  on  to  Malta, 
touching  at  Italian  ports,  and  finally  connecting 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


95 


"§-■ 


\l 


with  the  steamers  of  the  Peninsular  and  Oriental 
Company.  Tlie  day  after  Zillah  had  left  Mar- 
seilles one  of  these  left  Naples  on  its  way  to  the 
former  port,  having  on  hoard  the  usual  number 
and  variety  of  passengers. 

On  iho  stern  of  this  vessel  stood  two  men,  look- 
ing out  over  the  water  to  where  the  purple  Ap- 
ennines arose  over  the  Italian  coast,  where  the 
grand  figure  of  Vesuvius  towered  conspicuous, 
its  smoke  cloud  floating  like  a  pennon  in  the  air. 
One  of  these  men  was  tall,  broad-shouldered, 
sinewy,  with  strong  square  head,  massive  fore- 
head, firm  chin,  and  eyes  which  held  in  their  ex- 
pression at  once  gentleness  and  determination ; 
no  very  rare  compound  in  the  opinion  of  some, 
for  there  are  those  who  think  that  the  strongest 
and  boldest  natures  are  fretiuently  the  tendcrest. 
He  was  a  man  of  about  fifty,  or  perhaps  even 
sixty,  but  his  years  sat  lightly  on  him ;  and  he 
looked  like  a  man  whom  any  one  might  reason- 
ably dread  to  meet  with  in  a  personal  encounter. 
The  other  was  much  younger.  His  face  was 
bronzed  by  exposure  to  a  southern  sun ;  he 
wore  a  heavy  beard  and  mustache,  and  he  had 
the  unmistakable  aspect  of  an  English  gentle- 
man, whi'le  the  marked  military  air  which  was 
abo\it  him  showed  that  he  was  without  doubt  a 
British  officer.  He  was  dressed,  however,  as  a 
civilian.  His  hat  showed  that  he  was  in  mourn- 
ing ;  and  a  general  sadness  of  demeanor  which 
he  manifested  was  well  in  keeping  with  that 
sombre  emblem. 

"Well,  Windham,"  said  the  former,  after  a 
long  silence,  "I  never  thought  that  there  was  a 
l^lace  on  this  green  earth  that  could  take  hold  of 
me  like  that  Italian  city.  I  don't  believe  that 
there  is  a  city  any  where  that  comes  up  to  Naples. 
Even  New  York  is  not  its  equal.  I  wouldn't 
leave  it  now — no,  »StV.' — ten  team  of  horses 
couldn't  drag  me  away,  only  my  family  are 
waiting  for  me  at  Mareeilles,  you  see — and  I 
must  join  them.  However,  I'll  go  back  again  as 
soon  as  I  can ;  and  if  I  don't  stay  in  that  there 
country  till  I've  ejrhausted  it — squeezed  it,  and 
pressed  out  of  it  all  the  useful  and  entertaining 
information  that  it  can  give — why,  then,  my 
name's  not  Obed  Chute. " 

The  one  called  Windham  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"You'll  have  a  little  difficulty  inLombardy,  I 
think,"  said  he. 

"Why?" 

"The  war." 

"The  war?  My  friend,  are  you  not  aware 
that  the  war  need  not  be  any  obstacle  to  a  free 
American?" 

"Perhaps  not;  but  you  know  that  armies  in 
the  field  are  not  very  much  inclined  to  be  re- 
specters of  persons,  and  the  freest  of  free  Amer- 
icans might  find  himself  in  an  Austrian  or  a 
French  prison  as  a  spy." 

"  Even  so ;  but  he  would  soon  get  out,  and 
have  an  interesting  reminiscence.  That  is  one 
of  the  things  that  he  would  have  to  be  prepared 
for.  At  any  rate,  I  have  made  up  my  mind  to 
go  to  Lombardy,  and  I'll  take  my  family  with 
me.  I  should  dearly  like  to  get  a  Concord  coach 
to  do  it  in,  but  if  I  can't  I'll  get  the  nearest  ap- 
proach to  it  I  can  find,  and  calmly  trot  on  in  the 
rear  of  the  army.  Perhaps  I'll  have  a  chance  to 
take  part  in  some  engagement.  I  should  like  to 
do  80,  for  the  honor  of  the  flag  if  nothing  else." 

"  You  remind  me  of  your  celebrated  country- 


man, who  was,  as  he  said,  '  blue  moulded  for 
wont  of  a  fight.'  " 

"That  man.  Sir,  was  a  true  representative 
American,  and  a  type  of  our  ordinary,  everyday, 
active,  vi-vacious  Western  citizen — the  class  of 
men  that  fell  the  forests,  people  the  prairies, 
fight  the  fever,  reclaim  the  swamps,  tunnel  the 
moimtains,  send  railroads  over  the  ])lains,  and 
dam  all  tlie  rivers  on  the  broad  continent.  It's 
a  pity  that  these  Italians  hadn't  an  army  of  these  , 
Western  American  men  to  lead  them  in  their 
struggle  for  lilierty. " 

"  Do  you  think  they  would  be  better  than  the 
French  army  ?" 

"The French  army  !*  exclaimed  Obed  Chute, 
in  indescribable  accents. 

"Yes.  It  is  generally  conceded  that  the 
French  army  takes  the  lead  in  military  mat- 
ters.    I  say  so,  although  I  am  a  British  officer." 

"  Have  you  ever  traveled  in  the  States?"  said 
Obed  Chute,  quietly. 

" No.     I  have  not  yet  had  that  pleasure." 

"You  have  never  yet  seen  our  Western  popu- 
lation. You  don't  know  it,  and  you  can't  con- 
ceive it.  Can  you  imagine  the  original  English 
Puritan  turned  into  a  wild  Indian,  with  all  liis 
original  honor,  and  morality,  and  civilization, 
combining  itself  with  the  intense  animalism,  the 
capacity  for  endurance,  and  the  reckless  valor  of 
the  savage  ?  Surround  all  this  with  all  that  ten- 
derness, domesticity,  and  pluck  which  are  the 
ineradicable  characteristics  of  the  Saxon  race, 
and  then  you  have  the  Western  American  man 
— the  product  of  the  Saxon,  developed  by  long 
struggles  with  savages  and  by  the  animating  in- 
fluences of  a  boundless  continent." 

"I  suppose  by  this  you  mean  that  the  English 
race  in  America  is  superior  to  the  original  stock. " 

"That  can  hardly  be  doubted,"  said  Obed 
Chute,  quite  seriously.  "The  mother  country 
is  small  and  limited  in  its  resources.  America 
is  not  a  country.  It  is  a  continent,  over  which 
our  race  has  spread  itself.  The  race  in  the  mo- 
ther country  has  reached  its  ultimate  possibility. 
In  America  it  is  only  beginning  its  new  career. 
To  compare  America  with  England  is  not  fair. 
You  should  compare  New  York,  New  England, 
Virginia,  with  England,  not  America.  Already 
we  show  differences  in  the  development  of  the 
same  race  which  only  a  continent  could  cause. 
Maine  is  as  different  from  South  Carolina  as  En- 
gland from  Spain.  But  you  Europeans  never 
seem  able  to  get  over  a  fashion  that  you  have 
of  regarding  our  boundless  continent  as  a  small 
country.  Why,  I  myself  have  been  asked  by 
Europeans  about  the  health  of  friends  of  theirs 
who  lived  in  California,  and  whom  I  knew  no 
more  about  than  I  did  of  the  Chinese.  The  fact 
is,  however,  that  we  are  continental,  and  nature 
is  developing  the  continental  American  man  to 
an  astonishing  extent. 

"Now  as  to  this  Lombard  war,"  continued 
Obed  Chute,  as  M^indham  stood  listening  in  si- 
lence, and  with  a  quiet  smile  that  relieved  but 
slightly  the  deep  melancholy  of  his  face — "as  to 
this  Lombard  war ;  why.  Sir,  if  it  were  possible 
to  collect  an  army  of  Western  Americans  and 
put  them  into  that  there  territory" — waving  his 
hand  grandly  toward  the  Apennines — "  the  way 
they  would  walk  the  Austrians  off  to  their  own 
country  would  be  a  caution.  For  the  Western 
j  American  man,  as  an  individual,  is  phygicalljr  and 


96 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


spiritually  a  /7tgnntic  being,  and  an  nnny  of  such 
would  be  irresistible.  Two  weeks  would  wind 
up  the  Lombard  war.  Our  Americans,  Sir,  are 
the  most  military  people  in  the  wide  universe." 

"  As  yet,  though,  they  haven't  done  much  to 
show  tlieir  capacity,"  said  AVindbum.  "  You 
don't  call  the  Ivevolutionary  war  and  tliat  of  1812 
any  greater  than  ordinaiy  wars,  do  you  ?" 

"No,  Sir;  not  at  all,"  said  Obed  Chute. 
"  Wc  are  well  aware  that  in  actual  wars  we  have 
as  yet  done  but  little  in  comparison  with  our  pos- 
sibilities and  capabilities.  In  the  Revolutionary 
war.  Sir,  we  were  crude  and  unformed — we  were 
infants.  Sir,  and  our  efforts  were  infantile.  The 
swaddling  bands  of  the  colonial  system  had  all 
along  restrained  the  free  play  of  the  national 
muscle ;  and  throughout  the  war  there  was  not 
time  for  fidl  develojjment.  Still,  Sir,  from  that 
point  of  view,  as  an  infant  nation,  we  did  re- 
markable well — re-markable.  In  1812  we  did 
not  have  a  fair  chance.  We  had  got  out  of  in- 
fancy, it  is  true;  but  still  not  into  our  full  man- 
liood.  J5esides,  the  war  was  too  short.  Just  as 
we  began  to  get  into  condition — just  as  our  fleets 
and  armies  were  ready  to  do  something — the  war 
came  to'  an  end.  Even  then,  however,  we  did 
re-markable  well — re-markable.  But,  after  all, 
neither  of  these  exhibited  the  American  man  in 
liis  boundless  possibility  before  the  world." 

"  You  think,  I  8U))pose,  that  if  a  war  were  to 
come  now,  you  could  do  proportionally  better." 

"Think  it!"  said  Obed;  "I  know  it.  The 
American  people  know  it.  And  they  want, 
above  all  things,  to  have  a  chance  to  show  it. 
You  spoke  of  that  American  who  was  blue- 
moulded  for  want  of  a  fight.  I  said  that  man 
was  a  typical  American.  Sir,  that  saying  is  pro- 
foundly true.  Sir,  the  whole  American  nation 
is  blue-moulded.  Sir.  It  is  spilin  for  want  of  a 
fight— a  big  fight." 

"Well,  and  what  do  you  intend  to  do  about 
it?" 

"Time  will  show," said  Obed,  gravely.  "  Al- 
ready, any  one  acquainted  with  the  manners  of 
our  people  and  the  conduct  of  our  government 
will  recognize  the  remarkable  fact  that  our  na- 
tion is  the  most  wrathy,  cantankerous,  high-met- 
tled community  on  this  green  earth.  Why,  Sir, 
there  ain't  a  foreign  nation  that  can  keep  on 
friendly  terms  with  us.  It  ain't  ugliness,  either 
— it's  only  a  friendly  desire  to  have  a  figlit  with 
somebody — we  only  want  an  excuse  to  begin. 
The  only  trouble  is,  there  ain't  a  nation  that  re- 
ciprocates our  pecooliar  national  feeling." 

"  What  can  you  do,  then  ?"  asked  Windham, 
who  seemed  to  grow  quite  amused  at  this  con- 
versation. 

"  That's  a  thing  I've  often  puzzled  over,"  said 
Obed,  thoughtfully;  "and  I  can  see  only  one 
remedy  for  us. " 

"And  what  is  that?" 

"  Well,  it's  a  hard  one — but  I  suppose  it's  got 
to  come.  You  see,  the  only  foreign  countries 
that  are  near  enough  to  us  to  afford  a  satisfactory 
field  of  operations  are  Mexico  and  British  Amer- 
ica. The  first  we  have  already  tried.  It  was 
poor  work,  though.  Our  armies  marched  through 
Mexico  as  though  they  were  going  on  a  picnic. 
As  to  British  America,  there  is  no  chance.  The 
population  is  too  small.  No,  there  is  only  one 
way  to  gratify  the  national  craving  for  a  fight. " 

"I  don't  see  it." 


"Why,"  said  Obed,  dryly,  "to  get  up  a  big 
fight  among  ourselves." 

"Among  yourselves  ?" 

"Yes — quite  domestic — and  all  by  ourselves," 

"You  seem  to  me  to  speak  of  a  civil  war." 

"That's  the  identical  circumstance,  and  no- 
thing else.  It  is  the  only  thing  that  is  suited  to 
the  national  feeling ;  aiid  what's  more — it's  got  to 
come.  I  see  the  pointings  of  the  finger  of  Prov- 
idence. It's  got  to  come — there's  no  help  for  it 
— and.  mark  me,  when  it  does  come  it  '11  be  the 
tallest  kind  of  fightin'  that  this  revolving  orb  has 
yet  seen  in  all  its  revolutions. " 

"  You  speak  very  lightly  about  so  terrible  a 
thing  as  a  civil  war,"  said  Windham.  "  But  do 
you  think  it  i)ossible?  In  so  peaceful  and  well- 
ordered  a  country  what  causes  could  there  be  ?" 

"  When  the  whole  nation  is  pining  and  crav- 
ing and  s])ilin  for  a  fight,"  said  Obed,  "causes 
will  not  be  wanting.  I  can  enumerate  half  a 
dozen  now.  First,  there  is  the  slavery  question  ; 
secondly,  the  fariti'  q\icstion;  thirdly,  the  suf- 
frage (piestion  ;  fourthly,  the  question  of  the  nat- 
uralization of  foreigners  ;  fifthly,  the  bank  ques- 
tion ;  sixthly,  the  question  of  denominational 
schools." 

Windham  gave  a  short  laugh. 

"  You  certainly  seem  to  have  causes  enough 
for  a  war,  although,  to  my  contracted  European 
mind,  they  would  all  seem  insufhcient.  Which 
of  these,  do  you  think,  is  most  likely  to  be  the 
cause  of  that  civil  war  which  you  anticipate  ?" 

"One,  i)re-eminently  and  inevitably,"  said 
Obed,  solemnly.  "All  others  are  idle  beside 
this  one."  He  dropped  abruptly  tlie  half  gas- 
conading manner  in  which  he  had  been  indulg- 
ing, and,  in  a  low  voice,  added,  "  In  real  earn- 
est, Windham,  there  is  one  thing  in  America 
which  is,  every  year,  every  month,  every  day, 
forcing  on  a  war  from  which  there  can  be  no  es- 
cape; a  war  which  will  convulse  the  repidilic 
and  endangi-'r  its  existence ;  yes.  Sir,  a  war 
wliich  will  deluge  the  land  with  blood  from  one 
end  to  the  otiier." 

His  solemn  tone,  his  change  of  manner,  and 
his  intense  earnestness,  impressed  Windham  most 
deejjly.  He  felt  that  there  was  some  deep  mean- 
ing in  the  language  of  Obed  Chute,  and  that 
under  his  careless  words  there  was  a  gloomy 
foreboding  of  some  future  calamity  to  his  loved 
country. 

"This  is  a  fearful  prospect,"  said  he,  "  to  one 
who  loves  his  coimtry.  What  is  it  that  you  fear  ?" 

"One  thing,"  said  Obed — "one  thing,  and 
one  only — slavery !  It  is  this  that  has  divided 
the  republic  and  made  of  our  country  two  na- 
tions, which  already  stand  apart,  but  are  every 
day  drawing  nearer  to  that  time  when  a  frightful 
struggle  for  the  mastery  will  be  inevitable.  The 
South  and  the  North  must  end  their  differences 
by  a  fight;  and  that  fight  will  be  the  greatest 
that  has  been  seen  for  some  generations.  There 
is  no  help  for  it.  It  must  come.  There  are 
many  in  our  country  who  are  trying  to  postpone 
the  evil  day,  but  it  is  to  no  purpose.  The  time 
will  come  when  it  can  be  postponed  no  longer. 
Then  the  war  must  come,  and  it  will  be  the 
slave  States  against  the  free." 

"I  never  before  heard  an  American  acknowl- 
edge the  possibility  of  such  a  thing,"  said  Wind- 
ham, "though  in  Europe  there  are  many  who 
have  anticipated  this." 


I 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


97 


"Many  Americans  feel  it  and  fear  it,"  said 
Obed,  with  unchnngcd  solemnity;  "but  they 
do  not  dare  to  put  their  feelings  or  their  fears  in 
words.  One  may  fear  that  liis  father,  his  mo- 
ther, his  wife,  or  his  ciiild,  may  die ;  but  to  put 
such  a  fear  in  words  is  heart-breaking.  So  we, 
wiio  have  this  fear,  brood  over  it  in  secret,  and 
in  every  shifting  scene  of  our  national  life  we 
look  fearfully  for  those  coming  events  which  cast 
their  shadows  before.  Tiie  events  which  we 
watch  with  the  deepest  anxiety  are  the  Presi- 
dential elections.  Every  four  years  now  brings 
a  crisis ;  and  in  one  of  these  the  long  antagonism 
lietween  North  and  South  will  end  in  war.  But 
I  hate  to  speak  of  this.  What  were  we  talking 
(if?  Of  Lombardy  and  the  Italian  war.  What 
do  you  think,"  he  added,  abruptly  changing  the 
conversation,  "  of  my  plan  to  visit  the  seat  of 
war?" 

"  I  think,"  said  Windham,  "  that  if  any  man 
is  able  to  do  Lombardy  at  such  a  time,  you  are 
that  person." 

"  Well,  I  intend  to  try,"  said  Obed  Chute, 
modestly.  "  I  may  fail,  though  1  generally  suc- 
ceed in  what  I  set  my  mind  on.  I'll  go,  I  think, 
as  a  fighting  neutral. " 

"Prepared  to  fight  on  either  side,  I  suppose." 

"  Yes ;  as  long  as  I  don"t  have  to  fight  against 
Garibaldi." 

"But,  wouldn't  you  find  your  family  a  little 
embarrassing  in  case  of  a  fight  ?" 

"Oh  no!  they  would  always  be  safely  in  the 
rear,  at  the  base  of  my  line  of  operations.  There 
will  be  no  difficulty  about  it  whatever.  Ameri- 
cans are  welcome  all  over  Italy,  especially  at  this 
time,  for  these  /talians  think  that  America  sym- 
])athizes  with  them,  and  will  help  them ;  and  as 
to  the  French — why,  Boney,  though  an  emperor, 
is  still  a  democrat  to  his  heart's  core,  and,  I  have 
no  doubt,  would  give  a  warm  reception  to  a  fight- 
ing volunteer." 

"Have  you  any  acquaintance  with  any  of  the 
French  generals,  or  have  you  any  plan  for  getting 
access  to  Napoleon  ?" 

"Oh  no!  I  trust  merely  to  the  reason  and 
good  feeling  of  the  man.  It  seems  to  me  that  a 
request  from  a  free  American  to  take  part  in  a 
fight  could  hardly  meet  with  any  thing  else  ex- 
cept the  most  cordial  compliance." 

"  Well,  all  I  can  say  is,  that  if  I  were  Louis 
Napoleon,  I  would  put  you  on  my  staff,"  said 
Windham. 

The  name  of  Obed  Chute  has  already  been 
brought  forward.  He  had  embarked  at  Bombay 
on  board  the  same  steamer  with  Windham,  and 
they  had  formed  a  friendship  which  after  circum- 
stances had  increased.  At  first  Windham's  re- 
serve had  repelled  advances ;  his  sadness  and 
preoccupation  had  repelled  any  intimacy ;  but 
before  many  days  an  event  happened  which 
tiirew  them  into  close  association.  When  about 
half-way  on  her  voyage  the  steamer  was  discov- 
ered to  be  on  fire.  Panic  arose.  The  captain 
tried  to  keep  order  among  the  sailors.  This  he 
was  very  easily  able  to  do.  But  with  the  pas- 
sengers it  was  another  thing.  Confusion  pre- 
vailed every  where,  and  the  sailors  themselves 
were  becoming  demoralized  by  the  terror  which 
raged  among  the  others.  In  that  moment  of 
danger  two  men  stood  forth  from  among  the 
passengers,  who,  by  the  force  of  their  own  strong 
souls,  brought  order  out  of  that  chaos.     One  of 


these  was  Obed  Chute.  With  a  revolver  in  his 
hand  he  went  about  laying  hold  of  each  man  who 
seemed  to  be  most  agitated,  swearing  that  he 
would  blow  his  brains  out  if  he  didn't  "stop  his 
infernal  noise."  The  other  was  Windham,  who 
acted  in  a  ditt'erent  manner.  He  collected  j)i})es, 
pumps,  and  buckets,  and  induced  u  large  num- 
ber to  take  part  in  the  work  of  extinguisliing  tiie 
flames.  By  the  attitude  of  the  two  the  rest  were 
either  calmed  or  cowed ;  and  each  one  recog- 
nized in  the  other  a  kindred  spirit. 

After  landing  at  Suez  they  were  thrown  more 
closely  together ;  their  intimacy  deepened  on  the 
way  to  Alexandria ;  and  when  they  embarked  on 
the  Mediterranean  they  had  become  stronger 
friends  than  ever.  Windham  had  told  the  other 
that  he  had  recently  heard  of  the  death  of  a 
friend,  and  was  going  homo  to  settle  his  affairs. 
He  iiinted  also  that  he  was  in  some  government 
employ  in  India ;  and  Oljed  Chute  did  not  seek 
to  know  more.  Contrary  to  the  generally  re- 
ceived view  of  the  Yankee  character,  be  did  not 
show  any  curiosity  whatever,  but  received  the 
slight  information  which  was  given  witii  a  deli- 
cacy which  siiowed  no  desire  to  learn  more  than 
Windham  himself  might  choose  to  tell. 

But  for  his  own  part  lie  was  as  frank  and  com- 
municative as  though  Windham  had  been  an  old 
friend  or  a  ijlood  relation.  He  had  been  kejit  in 
New  York  too  closely,  he  said,  for  the  last  twenty 
years,  and  now  wished  to  have  a  little  breathing 
space  and  elbow-room.  So  he  had  left  New  York 
for  San  Francisco,  partly  on  pleasure,  partly  on 
business.  He  spent  some  months  in  California, 
and  then  crossed  the  Pacific  to  China,  touching 
at  Honolulu  and  Nangasaki.  He  had  left  direc- 
tions for  his  family  to  be  sent  on  to  Europe,  and 
meet  him  at  a  certain  time  at  Marseilles.  He 
was  expecting  to  find  them  there.  He  himself 
had  gone  from  China  to  India,  where  he  had 
taken  a  small  tour  though  the  country,  and  then 
had  embarked  for  Europe.  Before  going  back 
to  America  he  expected  to  spend  some  time  with 
his  family  in  Italy,  France,  and  Germany. 

There  was  a  grandeur  of  view  in  this  man's 
way  of  looking  upon  the  world  which  surprised 
Windham,  and,  to  some  degree,  amused  him. 
For  Obed  Chute  regarded  the  whole  world  ex- 
actly as  another  man  might  regard  his  native 
county  or  town ;  and  spoke  about  going  from 
San  P'rancisco  to  Hong-Kong,  touching  at  Nan- 
gasaki, just  as  another  might  speak  of  going 
from  Liverpool  to  Glasgow,  touching  at  Kothsay. 
He  seemed,  in  fact,  to  regard  our  planet  as  rather 
a  small  afiair,  easily  traversed,  and  a  place  with 
which  he  was  thoroughly  familiar.  He  had  writ- 
ten from  San  Francisco  for  his  family  to  meet 
him  at  Marseilles,  and  now  approached  that 
place  with  the  fullest  confidence  that  his  family 
would  be  there  according  to  appointment.  This 
type  of  man  is  entirely  and  exclusively  the  prodr 
uct  of  America,  the  country  of  magnificent  dis- 
tances, and  the  place  where  Nature  works  on  so 
grand  a  scale  that  human  beings  insensibly  catch 
her  style  of  expression.  Obed  Chute  was  a  man 
who  felt  in  every  fibre  the  oppressive  weight  of 
his  country's  grandeur.  Yet  so-  generous  was  his 
nature  that  he  forbore  to  overjiower  others  by  any 
allusions  to  that  grandeur,  except  where  it  was 
absolutely  impossible  to  avoid  it. 

These  two  had  gradually  come  to  form  a  strong 
regard  for  one  another,  and  Obed  Chute  did 


s 
11  i 


98 


THE  CRYFrOGKAM. 


not  hesitate  to  express  his  opinion  about  his 
t'rieiid. 

"  1  do  not  generally  take  to  Britishers,"  said 
ho,  once,  "for  they  are  too  contracted,  and  never 
seem  to  me  to  have  taken  in  a  full  breath  of  the  free 
air  of  the  imiverse.  They  seem  usually  to  have 
been  in  the  habit  of  inhaling  an  enervating  moral 
and  intellectual  atmosphere.  But  you  suit  mc, 
you  do.     Young  man,  your  hand." 

And  grasping  Windham's  hand,  Obed  wrung 
it  so  heartily  that  he  forced  nearly  all  feeling  out 
of  it. 

"  I  suppose  living  in  India  has  enabled  mo  to 
breathe  a  broader  moral  atmosphere,"  said  Wind- 
ham, with  his  usual  melancholy  smile. 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Obed  (.'hute.  "Some- 
thing has  done  it,  any  how.  You  showed  it  when 
the  steamer  was  burning," 

"How?" 

"By  your  eye." 

"Why,  what  effect  can  one's  moral  atmos- 
phere have  on  one's  eyes?" 

"An  enormous  effect,  "said  Obed  Chute.  "It's 
the  same  in  morals  as  in  nature.  The  Fellahs  of 
the  Nile,  exposed  as  they  are  to  the  action  of  the 
hot  rays  of  the  sun,  as  they  strike  on  the  sand, 
are  universally  troubled  with  ophthalmia.  In 
our  Mammoth  Cave,  in  Kentucky,  there  is  a  sub- 
terranean lake  containing  fishes  which  have  no 
eyes  at  all.  So  it  is  in  character  and  in  morals. 
I  will  point  you  out  men  whose  eyes  are  inflamed 
by  the  hot  rays  of  ))assion  ;  and  others  who  show 
by  their  eyes  that  they  have  lived  in  moral  dark- 
ness as  dense  as  that  of  the  Kentucky  cave. 
Take  a  thief.  Do  you  not  know  him  by  his 
eve  ?  It  takes  an  honest  man  to  look  you  in 
the  face." 

"Yon  have  done  a  great  many  things,"  said 
Windham,  at  another  time.  "Have  you  ever 
preached  in  your  country  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Obed  Chute,  with  a  langh  ;  "  but 
I've  done  better — I've  been  a  stump  orator ;  and 
stump  oratory,  as  it  is  practiced  in  America,  is  a 
little  the  tallest  kind  of  preaching  that  this  green 
earth"  (he  was  fond  of  that  expression)  "has 
ever  listened  to.  Our  orb,  ISir,  has  seen  strange 
experiences ;  but  it  is  getting  rayther  astonished 
at  the  performances  of  the  American  man." 

"Generally,"  said  Windham,  "I  do  not  be- 
lieve in  preaching  so  much  as  in  practice ;  but 
when  I  see  a  man  like  you  who  can  do  both,  I'm 
willing  to  listen,  even  if  it  be  a  stump  speech  that 
I  hoar.  Still,  I  think  that  you  are  decidedly 
greater  with  a  revolver  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd 
than  you  could  be  on  a  stump  with  a  crowd  bo- 
fore  you." 

Obed  Chute  shook  his  head  solemnly. 

"There,"  said  ho,  "is  one  of  the  pecooliari- 
ties  of  you  Europeans.  You  don't  understand 
our  national  ways  and  manners.  We  don't 
separate  saying  and  doing.  With  us  every  man 
who  protends  to  speak  must  be  able  to  act.  No 
man  is  listened  to  tmless  he  is  known  to  be  ca- 
pable of  knocking  down  any  one  who  irterrupts 
him.  In  a  country  like  ours  speaki'j^  and  act- 
ing go  together.  The  Stump  and  the  Revolver 
are  two  great  American  forces — twin  born — the 
animating  power  of  the  Great  Republic.  There's 
no  help  for  it.  It  must  be  so.  Why,  if  I  give 
oflense  in  a  speech,  I  shall  of  course  be  called  to 
account  afterward ;  and  if  I  can't  take  care  of 
myself  and  settle  the  account — why — where  am 


I  ?  Don't  you  see  ?  Ours,  Sir,  is  a  singular 
state  of  society ;  but  it  is  the  last  development 
of  the  human  race,  and,  of  course,  the  best." 

Conversations  like  tlieso  diverr.d  Windham 
and  roused  him  from  his  brooding  melancholy. 
Obed  Chute's  fancies  were  certainly  whimsical; 
he  had  an  odd  love  for  paradox  and  extrava- 
gance ;  lie  seized  the  idea  that  ha])pened  to  sug- 
gest itself,  and  followed  it  out  with  a  dry  gravity 
and  a  solemn  air  of  earnestness  which  made  ail 
tliat  he  said  seem  like  his  profound  conviction. 
Thus  in  these  conversations  Windham  neve- 
failed  to  rei^eive  entertainment,  and  to  be  roused 
from  his  preoccupying  cares. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

PICKED    UP    ADKIFT. 

Two  days  passed  since  the  steamer  left  Na- 
ples, and  they  were  now  far  on  their  way.  On 
the  morning  of  t';e  third  Windham  came  on 
deck  at  an  early  hour.  No  one  was  up.  The 
man  at  the  wheel  was  the  only  one  visible. 
Windham  looked  around  upon  the  glorious 
scene  which  the  wide  sea  unfolds  at  such  a  time. 
The  sun  had  not  yet  risen,  but  all  the  eastern 
sky  was  tinged  with  red ;  and  the  wide  waste  of 


THE  CKYl'TOGRAM. 


99 


^^ 


waters  between  the  ship  and  that  eastern  horizon 
was  colored  with  tlio  rudiy  hues  wliich  the  sky 
oast  downward.  Hut  it  wiis  not  this  scene, 
niagnificetit  tiioii)r)i  it  was,  which  attracted  tlie 
tiiouKhts  of  Windlwun  as  he  stood  on  tlie  ((iiar- 
ter-deck.  His  face  was  turned  in  that  direction  ; 
hut  it  was  with  an  ai)stracted  gaze  which  took 
in  nothing  of  tlie  glories  of  visible  nature.  That 
deep-seated  melancholy  of  his,  which  was  always 
visible  in  his  face  and  manner,  was  never  more 
visible  tlian  now.  lie  stood  by  the  tatf'rail  in  a 
dejected  attitude  and  with  a  dejected  face — 
brooding  over  his  own  secret  cares,  flnding  no- 
tliing  in  this  but  fresh  anxieties,  and  yet  unable 
to  turn  his  tlioughts  to  any  thing  else.  The 
steamer  sped  through  the  waters,  the  rumble  of 
her  machinery  was  in  the  air,  the  early  hour 
made  the  solitude  more  complete.  This  man, 
whoever  he  was,  did  not  look  as  though  he  were 
going  to  England  on  any  joyous  errand,  but 
rather  like  one  who  was  going  home  to  the  per- 
formance of  some  mournful  duty  which  was 
never  absent  from  his  thoughts. 

Standing  thus  with  his  eyes  wandering  aji- 
stractedly  over  the  water,  he  became  aware  of 
an  object  upon  its  surface,  which  attracted  his 
attention  and  roused  him  from  his  meditations. 
It  struck  him  as  very  singular.  It  was  at  some 
considerable  distance  of^',  and  the  steamer  was 
rapidly  passing  it.  It  was  not  yet  sufficiently 
light  to  distinguish  it  well,  but  he  took  the  ship's 
glass  and  looked  carefully  at  it.  He  could  now 
distinguish  it  more  plainly.  It  was  a  schooner 
with  its  sails  down,  which  by  its  general  position 
seemed  to  be  drifting.  It  was  very  low  in  the 
water,  as  though  it  were  either  very  heavily  laden 
or  else  water-logged.  But  there  was  one  thing 
there  which  drew  all  his  thoughts.  By  the  fore- 
mast, as  he  looked,  he  saw  a  figure  standing, 
which  was  distinctly  waving  something  as  if  to 
attract  the  attention  of  the  passing  steamer. 
The  figure  looked  like  a  woman.  A  longer 
glance  convinced  him  that  it  was  so  in  very 
deed,  and  that  this  lonely  figure  was  some  wo- 
man in  distress.  It  seemed  to  appeal  to  him- 
self and  to  himself  alone,  with  that  mute  yet 
eloquent  signal,  and  those  despairing  gestures. 
A  strange  pang  shot  through  his  heart — a  pang 
sharp  and  unaccountable — something  more  than 
that  which  might  be  caused  by  any  common 
scene  of  misery  ;  it  was  a  pang  of  deep  pity  and 
profound  sympathy  with  this  lonely  sufferer, 
from  whom  the  steamer's  course  was  turned 
away,  and  whom  the  steersman  had  not  regard- 
ed. He  only  had  seen  the  sight,  and  the  wo- 
man seemed  to  call  to  him  out  of  her  despair. 
The  deep  sea  lay  between ;  her  presence  was  a 
mystery ;  but  there  seemed  a  sort  of  connection 
between  him  and  her  as  though  invisible  yet  re- 
sistless Fate  had  shown  them  to  one  another, 
and  brought  him  here  to  help  and  to  save.  It 
needed  but  an  instant  for  all  these  thoughts  to 
flash  through  his  mind.  In  an  instant  he  flew 
below  and  roused  the  captain,  to  whum  in  a  few 
hurried  words  he  explained  what  had  occurred. 

The  captain,  who  was  dressed,  hurried  up 
and  looked  for  himself.  But  by  this  time  the 
steamer  had  moved  away  much  further,  and  the 
captain  could  not  see  very  distinctly  any  thing 
more  than  the  outline  of  a  boat. 

"Oh,  it's  only  a  fishing-boat,"  said  he,  with 
an  air  of  indifference. 


"Fishing-boat!  I  tell  you  it  is  an  English 
yacht,"  said  Windham,  fiercely.  "I  saw  it  plain- 
ly. The  sails  were  down.  It  was  water-logged. 
A  woman  was  standing  by  the  foremast." 

The  captain  looked  annoyed. 

"  It  looks  to  me,"  said  he,  "simply  like  some 
heavily  laden  schooner." 

"  But  I  tell  you  she  is  sinking,  and  there  is 
a  woman  on  board,"  said  Windham,  more  ve- 
hemently than  ever. 

"  Oh,  it's  only  some  Neapolitan  fish-wife." 

"You  must  turn  the  steamer,  and  save  her,'" 
said  Windham,  with  savage  cm])hasis. 

"  I  can  not.     We  shall  be  behind  time." 

"Damn  time!"  roared  Windham,  thoroughly 
roused.  "Do  you  talk  of  time  in  comparison 
with  the  life  of  a  human  being  ?  If  you  don't 
turn  the  steamer's  head,  /will." 

"You!"  cried  the  captain,  angrily.  "Damn 
it !  if  it  comes  to  that,  I'd  like  to  see  you  try  it. 
It's  mutiny." 

Windham's  face  grew  white  with  suppressed 
indignation. 

"Turn  the  steamer's  head,"  said  he,  in  stem 
cold  tones,  from  which  every  trace  of  passion 
had  vanished.  "  If  you  don  t,  I'll  do  it  myself. 
If  you  interfere,  I'll  blow  your  brains  out.  As 
it  is,  you'll  rae  the  day  you  ever  refused.  Do 
you  know  who  I  am?" 

He  stepped  forward,  and  whispered  in  the  cap- 
tain's ear  some  words  which  sent  a  look  of  awe 
or  fear  into  the  captain's  face.  Whether  Wind- 
ham was  the  president  of  the  company,  or  some 
British  embassador,  or  one  of  the  Lords  of  the 
Admiralty,  or  any  one  else  in  high  authority, 
need  not  be  disclosed  here.  Enough  to  say  that 
the  captain  hurried  aft,  and  instantly  the  steam- 
er's head  was  turned. 

As  for  Windham,  he  took  no  further  notice 
of  the  captain,  but  all  his  attention  was  absorbed 
by  the  boat.  It  seemed  water-logged,  yet  still 
it  was  certainly  not  sinking,  for  as  the  steamer 
drew  nearer,  the  light  had  increased,  and  he 
could  see  plainly  through  the  glass  that  the  boat 
was  still  about  the  same  distance  out  of  the 
water. 

Meanwhile  Obed  Chute  made  his  appearance, 
and  Windham,  catching  sight  of  him,  briefly  ex- 
plained every  thing  to  him.  At  once  all  Obed's 
most  generous  sympathies  were  roused.  He 
took  the  glass,  and  eagerly  scrutinized  the  vessel. 
He  recognized  it  at  once,  as  Windham  had,  to  be 
an  English  yacht' ;  he  saw  also  that  it  was  water- 
logged, and  he  saw  the  figure  at  the  mast.  But 
the  figure  was  no  longer  standing  erect,  or  wav- 
ing hands,  or  making  despairing  signals.  It  had 
fallen,  and  lay  now  crouched  in  a  heap  at  the 
foot  of  the  mast.  This  Windham  also  saw.  He 
conjectured  what  the  cause  of  this  might  be.  He 
thought  that  this  poor  creature  had  kept  up  her 
signals  while  the  steamer  was  passing,  until  at 
last  it  had  gone  beyond,  and  seemed  to  be  leav- 
ing her.  Then  hope  and  strength  failed,  and 
she  sank  down  senseless.  It  was  easy  to  under- 
stand all  this,  and  nothing  could  be  conceived 
of  more  touching  in  its  mute  eloquence  than  this 
prostrate  figure,  whose  distant  attitudes  had  told 
so  tragical  a  story.  Now  all  this  excited  Wind- 
ham still  more,  for  he  felt  more  than  ever  that 
he  was  the  savior  of  this  woman's  life.  Fate  had 
sent  her  across  his  path — had  given  her  life  to 
him.     He  only  had  been  the  cause  why  she 


11^1   ■■■-►»|"7i|"",l" 


*  |."W>'WW  li»(||.l)>Ml«Hli'll 


100 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


should  not  perish  unseen  nnil  unknown.  This 
part  whicli  he  Imd  been  cnlleil  on  to  phiy  of  sav- 
ior and  rescuer — this  sudden  vision  of  woo  and 
despair  appealing  to  liis  mercy  for  aid — had 
chased  away  all  customary  thoughts,  so  that  now 
his  one  idea  was  to  complete  his  work,  and  save 
this  [)oor  castaway. 

But  meanwhile  he  had  not  been  idle.  The 
captain,  who  had  been  so  strangely  changed  by 
a  few  words,  had  called  up  the  sailors,  and  in  an 
instant  the  fact  was  known  to  the  whole  ship's 
company  that  they  were  going  to  save  a  woman 
in  distress.  The  gallant  fellows,  like  true  sail- 
ors, entered  into  the  spirit  of  the  time  with  the 
greatest  ardor.  A  boat  was  got  ready  to  be 
lowered,  Windham  jumped  in,  Chute  followed, 
and  half  a  dozen  sailors  took  the  oars.  In  a 
short  time  the  steamer  had  come  up  to  the 
place.  iShe  stopped ;  the  boat  was  lowered ; 
down  went  the  oars  into  the  water;  and  away 
sped  the  boat  toward  the  schooner.  Obed  Chute 
steered.  Windham  was  in  the  bow,  looking  ea- 
gerly at  the  schooner,  which  lay  there  in  the 
same  condition  as  before.  The  sun  was  now 
just  rising,  and  throwing  its  radiant  beams  over 
the  sea.  The  prostrate  figure  lay  at  the  foot  of 
the  mast. 

Rapidly  the  distance  between  the  boat  and  the 
schooner  was  lessened  by  the  vigorous  strokes  of 
the  seamen.  They  themselves  felt  an  interest  in 
the  result  only  less  than  that  of  Windham.  Near- 
er and  nearer  they  came.  At  length  the  boat 
touched  the  schooner,  and  Windham,  who  was 
in  the  bow,  leaped  on  board.  He  hurried  to 
the  prostrate  figure.  He  stooped  down,  and 
with  a  strange  unaccountable  tenderness  and  rev- 
erence he  took  her  in  his  arms  and  raised  her  up. 
Perhaps  it  was  only  the  reverence  which  any 
great  calamity  may  excite  toward  the  one  that 
experiences  such  calamity ;  perhaps  it  was  some- 
thing more  profound,  more  inexplicable — the  out- 
going of  the  soul — which  may  sometimes  have  a 
forecast  of  more  than  may  be  indicated  to  the 
material  senses.  This  may  seem  like  mysticism, 
but  it  is  not  intended  as  such.  It  is  merely  a 
statement  of  the  well-known  fact  that  sometimes, 
under  certain  circumstances,  there  arise  within 
ns  unaccountable  presentiments  and  forebodings, 
which  seem  to  anticipate  the  actual  future. 

Windham  then  stooped  down,  and  thus  ten- 
derly and  reverently  raised  up  the  figure  of  the 
woman.  The  sun  was  still  rising  and  gleaming 
over  the  watere,  and  gleaming  thus,  it  threw  its 
full  rays  into  the  face  of  the  one  whom  he  held 
supported  in  his  arms,  whose  head  was  thrown 
back  as  it  lay  on  his  breast,  and  was  upturned 
so  that  he  could  see  it  plainly. 

And  never,  in  all  his  dreams,  had  any  face 
appeared  before  him  which  bore  so  rare  and  ra- 
diant a  beauty  as  this  one  of  the  mysterious 
stranger  whom  he  had  rescued.  The  complex- 
ion was  of  a  rich  olive,  and  still  kept  its  hue 
where  another  would  have  been  changed  to  the 
pallor  of  death ;  the  closed  eyes  were  fringed 
■>vith  long  heavy  lashes ;  the  eyebrows  were  thin, 
and  loftily  arched ;  the  hair  was  full  of  waves 
and  undulations,  black  as  night,  gleaming  with 
its  jetty  gloss  in  the  sun's  rays,  and  in  its  disorder 
falling  in  rich  luxuriant  masses  over  the  arms  and 
the  shoulder  of  him  who  supported  her.  The 
features  were  exquisitely  beautiful ;  her  nose  a 
slight  departure  from  the  Grecian ;  her  lips  small 


and  exquisitely  shapen  ;  her  chin  rounded  fault- 
lessly. The  face  was  thinner  than  it  might  have 
been,  like  tlio  face  of  youth  and  beauty  in  the 
midst  of  sorrow ;  but  the  thinness  was  not  emaci- 
ation ;  it  had  but  refined  and  spiritualized  those 
matchless  outlines,  giving  to  them  not  the  voluptu- 
ous beauty  of  theOreek  ideal,  but  rather  the  an- 
gelic or  saintly  beauty  of  the  medieval.  She  was 
young  too,  and  the  bloom  and  freshness  of  youth 
were  there  beneath  all  the  sorrow  and  the  grief. 
More  than  this,  the  refined  grace  of  thjit  face, 
the  nobility  of  those  features,  the  stamp  of  high 
breeding  wnich  was  visible  in  every  lineament, 
showed  at  once  that  she  could  be  no  common 
person.  This  was  no  fisherman's  wife — no  peas- 
ant girl,  but  some  one  of  high  rank  and  breed- 
ing— some  one  whose  dress  proclaimed  her  sta- 
tion, even  if  her  features  had  told  him  nothing. 

"My  God!"  exclaimed  Windham,  in  bewil- 
derment. "  Who  is  ghe  ?  How  came  she  here  ? 
What  is  the  meaning  of  it?" 

But  there  was  no  time  to  bo  lost  in  wonder 
or  in  vague  conjectures.  The  girl  was  senseless. 
It  was  necessary  at  once  to  put  her  under  cari- 
ful  treatment.  For  a  moment  Windham  lin- 
gered, gazing  upon  that  sad  and  exciuisito  face ; 
and  then  raising  her  in  his  arms,  he  went  back 
to  the  boat.  "Give  way,  lads!"  he  cried;  and 
the  sailors,  who  saw  it  all,  pulled  with  a  will. 
They  were  soon  back  again.  The  senselass  one 
was  lifted  into  the  steamer.  Windham  carried 
her  in  his  own  arms  to  the  cabin,  and  placed  her 
tenderly  in  a  berth,  and  committed  her  to  the 
care  of  the  stewardess.  Then  he  waited  impa- 
tiently for  news  of  her  recovery. 

Obed  Chute,  however,  insisted  on  going  back 
to  the  schooner  for  the  sake  of  making  a  general 
investigation  of  the  vessel.  On  going  on  board 
he  found  that  she  was  water-logged.  8he  seemed 
to  have  been  kept  afloat  either  by  her  cargo,  or 
else  by  some  peculiarity  in  her  construction, 
which  rendered  her  incapable  of  sinking.  He 
tore  open  the  hatchway,  and  pushing  an  oar 
down,  he  saw  that  there  was  no  cargo,  so  that 
it  must  have  been  the  construction  of  the  vessel 
which  kept  her  afloat.  What  that  was,  he  could 
not  then  find  out.  He  was  compelled,  there- 
fore, to  leave  the  question  unsettled  for  the  pres- 
ent, and  he  took  refuge  in  the  thought  that  the 
one  who  was  rescued  might  be  able  to  solve  the 
mystery.  This  allayed  for  a  time  his  eager  curi- 
osity. But  he  determined  to  save  the  scliooner, 
so  as  to  examine  it  afterward  at  his  leisure.  A 
hasty  survey  of  the  cabins,  into  which  he  plunged, 
showed  nothing  whatever,  and  so  he  was  com- 
pelled to  postpone  this  for  the  present.  But  he 
had  a  line  made  fast  between  the  steamer  and 
the  schooner,  and  the  latter  was  thus  towed  all 
the  way  to  Marseilles.  It  showed  no  signs  of 
sinking,  but  kept  afloat  bravely,  and  reached  the 
port  of  destination  in  about  the  same  condition 
in  which  it  had  been  first  found. 

The  stewardess  treated  the  stranger  with  the 
utmost  kindness  and  the  tenderest  solicitude, 
and,  at  length,  the  one  who  had  thus  been  so 
strangely  rescued  came  out  of  that  senselessness 
into  which  she  had  been  thrown  by  the  loss  of 
the  hope  of  rescue.  On  reviving  she  told  a  brief 
story.  She  said  that  she  was  English,  that  her 
name  was  Lorton,  and  that  she  had  been  trav- 
eling to  Marseilles  in  her  own  yacht.  That  the 
day  before,  on  awaking,  she  found  the  yacht  full 


THE  CUYPTOGUAM. 


101 


WINDHAM  TENDERLY  AND   KEVEKENTLY   KAI8ED   HEK. 


of  water  and  abandoned.  She  had  been  a  day 
and  a  night  alone  in  the  vessel,  without  either 
food  or  shelter.  She  had  suft'ered  mnch,  and 
was  in  extreme  prostration,  both  of  miiul  and 
body.  But  her  strongest  desire  was  to  get  to 
Naples,  for  her  sister  was  there  in  ill  health, 


and  she  had  been  making  the  journey  to  visit 
her. 

Windham  and  Obed  Chute  heard  this  very 
strange  narrative  from  the  stewardess,  a)id  talked 
it  over  between  themjelves,  considering  it  in  all 
its  bearings.     The  opinion  of  each  of  them  was 


102 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


that  there  had  been  foul  play  somewhere.  But 
then  the  question  arose :  why  should  there  have 
been  foul  play  upon  an  innocent  young  girl  like 
this  ?  She  was  an  English  lady,  evidently  of  the 
higher  classes  ;  her  look  was  certainly  foreign, 
but  her  English  accent  was  perfect.  In  her  sim- 
ple story  she  seemed  to  have  concealed  nothing. 
The  exquisite  beauty  of  the  young  girl  had  filled 
the  minds  of  both  of  these  men  with  a  strong 
desire  to  find  out  the  cause  of  her  wrongs,  and 
to  avenge  her.  But  how  to  do  so  was  the  diffi- 
culty. Windham  had  important  business  in  En- 
gland which  demanded  immediate  attention,  and 
would  hardly  allow  him  to  delay  more  than  a  few 
days.  Obed  Chute,  on  the  contrary,  had  plenty 
of  time,  but  did  not  feel  like  trying  to  intrude 
himself  on  her  confidence.  Yet  herdistress  and 
desolation  had  an  eloquence  which  swayed  both 
of  these  men  from  their  common  purposes,  an 
each  determined  to  postpone  other  designs,  anu 
do  all  that  was  possible  for  her. 

In  spite  of  an  hour's  delay  in  rescuing  Miss  Lor- 
ton,  the  steamer  arrived  at  Marseilles  at  nearly 
t':e  usual  time,  and  the  question  arose,  what  was 
to  be  done  with  the  one  that  they  had  rescued  ? 
Windham  could  do  nothing;  but  Obed  Chute 
could  do  something,  and  did  do  it.  Tl  ,  young 
lady  was  able  now  to  sit  up  in  the  saloon,  and 
here  it  was  that  Obed  Chute  waited    _  m  her. 

"Have  you  anv  friends  in  Marseilles?"  he 
asked,  in  a  voice  tuU  of  kindly  sympathy. 

"No,"  said  Zillah,  in  a  mournful  voice ;  "  none 
nearer  than  Nnj)les." 

"I  have  my  family  here,  ma'am,"  said  Obed. 
"  I  am  an  American  and  a  gentleman.  If  you 
have  no  friends,  would  you  feel  any  objection  to 
stay  with  us  while  you  are  here  ?  My  family  con- 
sists of  my  sister,  two  children,  and  some  serv- 
ants. We  are  going  to  Italy  as  soon  as  possible, 
and  if  you  have  no  objection  we  can  take  you 
there  with  us — to  Naples — to  your  sister. " 

Zillah  looked  up  at  the  large  honest  face, 
whose  kindly  eyes  beamed  down  upon  her  with 
parental  pity,  and  she  read  in  that  face  the  ex- 
pression of  a  noble  and  loyal  nature. 

"You  are  very — very  kind,"  said  she,  in  a 
faltering  voice.  "You  will  lay  me  under  very 
great  obligations.  Yes,  Sir,  I  accept  your  kind 
offer.  I  shall  be  only  too  happy  to  put  myself 
under  your  protection.  I  will  go  with  you,  and 
may  Heaven  bless  you !" 

She  held  out  her  hand  toward  him.  Obed 
Chute  took  that  little  hand  in  his,  but  restrained 
his  great  strength,  and  only  pressed  it  lightly. 

Meanwhile  Windham  had  come  in  to  congrat- 
ulate the  beautiful  girl,  whose  face  had  been 
haunting  him  ever  since  that  time  when  the  sun 
lighted  it  up,  as  it  lay  amidst  its  glory  of  ebon 
hair  upon  his  breast.  He  heard  these  last  words, 
and  stood  apart,  modestly  awaiting  some  chance 
to  speak. 

Zillah  raised  her  face. 

Their  eyes  met  in  a  long  earnest  gaze. 

Zillah  was  the  first  to  speak. 

' '  You  saved  me  from  a  fearful  fate, '  dhe  said,  in 
low  and  tremulous  tones.    ' '  ^  heard  all  about  it. " 

Windham  said  nothing,  jUt  bowed  in  silence. 

Zillah  rose  from  her  chair,  and  advanced  to- 
ward him,  her  face  expicssing  strong  emotion. 
Now  he  saw,  for  the  first  time,  her  wondrous  eyes, 
in  all  their  magnificence  of  beauty,  with  their  deep 
unfathomable  meaning,  and  their  burning  intens- 


ity of  gaze.  On  the  schooner,  while  her  head  lay 
on  his  breast,  those  eyes  were  closed  in  sense- 
lessness— now  they  were  fixed  on  his. 

"  Will  you  let  me  thank  you.  Sir,"  she  said,  in 
a  voice  which  thrilled  through  him  in  musical 
vibrations,  "for  my /{/!?,  which  you  snatched  from 
a  death  of  horror  ?  To  thank  you,  is  but  a  cold 
act.  Believe  me,  you  have  my  everlasting  grat- 
itude." 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  Windham.  He  took 
it  in  both  of  his,  and  reverentially  raised  it  to  his 
lips.  A  heavy  sigh  burst  from  him,  and  he  let  it 
fall. 

"Miss  Lorton,"  said  he,  in  his  deep  musical 
voice,  which  now  trembled  with  an  agitation  to 
which  he  was  unused  "if  I  have  been  the 
means  of  saving  you  from  any  evil,  my  own  joy 
is  so  great  that  no  thanks  are  needed  from  you; 
r,  rather,  all  thankfulness  ought  to  belong  to 
le." 

A  deep  flush  overspread  Zillah's  face.  Her 
large  dark  eyes  for  a  moment  seemed  to  read 
his  inmost  soul.  Then  she  looked  down  in  si- 
lence. 

As  for  Windham,  he  turned  away  with  some- 
thing like  abruptness,  and  left  her  with  Obed 
Chute. 


CHAPTER  XXXI. 

THE   PREFECT  OF   POLICE. 

OnED  Chute  had  requested  his  business  agents, 
Messrs.  Bourdonnais  Frferes,  to  obtain  a  suitable 
place  for  his  family  on  their  arrival.  He  went 
first  to  thei.'  office,  and  learned  that  the  family 
were  then  in  Marseilles,  and  received  their  ad- 
dress. He  then  went  immediately  for  Zillah, 
and  brought  her  with  him.  The  family  consist- 
ed of  two  small  girls,  aged  respectively  eight  and 
ten,  two  maids,  a  nurst,  and  a  valet  or  courier, 
or  both  combined.  A  sister  of  Obed's  had  the 
responsibility  of  the  party. 

Delight  at  getting  among  any  friends  would 
have  made  this  party  welcome  to  her ;  but  Miss 
Chute's  thorough  respectability  made  her  posi- 
tion entirely  unobjectionable.  Obed  Chute's  feel- 
ings were  not  of  a  demonstrative  character.  He 
kissed  his  sister,  took  each  of  his  little  girls  up 
in  his  aiTfis,  and  held  them  there  for  about  an 
hour,  occasionally  walking  up  and  down  the  room 
with  them,  and  talking  to  them  all  the  time.  He 
had  b"ought  presents  from  all  parts  of  the  world 
for  every  member  of  his  family,  and  when  at 
length  they  were  displayed,  the  children  made 
the  house  ring  with  their  rejoicings.  Zillah  was 
soon  on  a  home  footii.,^  with  this  little  circle. 
Miss  Chute,  though  rather  sharp  and  -.ery  an- 
gular, was  still  thoroughly  kind-hearted,  and 
sympathized  deeply  with  the  ]mot  waif  whom 
Providence  had  thrown  under  her  protection. 
Her  kind  care  and  unremitting  attention  had  a 
favorable  effect ;  and  Zillah  grew  rapidly  better, 
and  regained  something  of  that  strength  which 
she  had  lost  during  the  terrors  of  her  late  ad- 
venture. She  was  most  anxious  to  go  to  Na- 
ples ;  but  Obed  told  her  that  she  would  have  to 
wait  for  the  next  steamer,  which  would  prolong 
her  stay  in  Marseilles  at  least  a  fortnight. 

As  soon  as  Obed  had  seen  Zillah  fairly  settled 
in  the  bosom  of  his  family,  ho  set  out  to  give 
information  to  the  police  about  the  whole  luat^ 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


103 


ter.     His  story  wns  listened  to  with  the  deepest  i 
attention.     Windham,  who  was  present,  corrob-  ' 
orated  it ;  and  finally  the  thing  was  considered  | 
to  be  of  such  importance  that  the  chief  of  police 
determined  to  pay  Zillah  a  visit  on  the  following 
day,  for  the  sake  of  finding  out  the  utmost  about 
80  mysterious  an  affair.     This  official  spoke  En- 
glish very  well  indeed,  and  had  spent  all  his  life 
in  the  profession  to  which  he  belonged.  | 

Both  Obed  Chute  and  Windham  were  present ' 
at  the  interview  which  the  chief  of  police  had  j 
with  Zillah,  and  heard  all  that  she  had  to  say  in  I 
answer  to  his  many  questions.  The  chief  began  * 
by  assuring  her  that  the  case  was  a  grave  one,  | 
both  as  affecting  her,  and  also  as  affecting  ITrance,  I 
and  more  particularly  Marseilles.  He  apologized 
for  being  forced  to  ask  a  great  many  questions,  j 
and  hoped  that  she  would  understand  his  mo- 
tives, and  answer  freely. 

Zillah  told  her  story  in  very  much  the  same 
terms  that  she  had  told  it  on  board  the  steamer. 
Her  father  had  died  some  years  ago,  she  said. 
She  and  her  sister  had  bpen  living  together  in 
various  parts  of  England.  Their  last  home  was 
Tenby.  She  then  gave  a  minute  account  of 
the  accident  whicli  had  happened  to  Hilda,  and 
showed  the  letter  which  had  been  written  from 
Naples.  This  the  chief  of  police  scanned  very 
curiously  and  closely,  examining  the  envelope, 
the  post-marks,  and  the  stamps. 

Zillah  then  proceeded  to  give  an  account  of 
lier  journey  until  the  arrival  at  Marseilles.  She 
told  him  of  the  confusion  which  liad  prevailed, 
and  how  the  mail  steamers  had  been  taken  off 
the  route,  how  Gualtier  had  found  a  yacht  and 
purchased  it  for  her,  and  how  Mathilde  had  de-  , 
serted  her.  Then  she  recounted  her  voyage  up 
to  the  time  when  she  had  seen  the  steamer,  and 
had  fallen  prostrate  at  the  foot  of  the  mast. 

"What  was  the  date  of  your  arrival  at  Mar- 
seilles ?"  asked  the  chief,  after  long  thought. 

Zillah  informed  him. 

"  Who  is  Gualtier  ?" 

"  He  is  a  teacher  of  music  and  drawing." 

"Where  does  he  live?" 

"In  London." 

•'  Do  you  know  any  thing  about  his  anteced- 
ents ?" 

"No." 

"  Have  you  known  him  long?" 

"  Yes ;  for  five  years." 

"  Has  he  generally  enjoyed  your  confidence?" 

"I  never  thought  much  about  him,  one 
way  or  the  other.  My  father  foimd  him  in 
London,  and  brought  him  to  instruct  me.  Aft- 
erward— " 

Zillah  hesitated.     She  was  thinking  of  Cbet- 
wvnde. 
'"Well— afterward— ?" 

"  After\vard,"  said  Zillah,  "that  is,  after  my 
father's  death,  he  still  continued  his  instruc- 
tions." 

"  Did  he  teach  your  sister  also  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Your  sister  seems  to  have  had  great  con- 
fidence in  him,  judging  from  her  letter?" 

"Yes." 

"Did  she  ever  make  use  of  his  services  be- 
fore?" 

"No." 

"Might  she  not  have  done  so ?" 

"  I  don't  see  bow.     No  occasion  ever  arose. " 


"Why,  then,  did  she  think  him  so  trust- 
worthy, do  you  suppose  ?" 

"Why,  I  suppose  because  he  had  been  known 
to  us  so  long,  and  had  been  apparently  a  hum- 
ble, devoted,  and  industrious  man.  We  were 
quite  solitary  always.  We  had  no  friends,  and 
so  I  suppose  she  thought  of  him.  It  would  have 
been  quite  as  likely,  if  I  wore  in  her  situation, 
that  I  would  have  done  the  same — that  is,  if  I 
had  her  cleverness. " 

"  Your  sister  is  clever,  then?" 

"Very  clever  indeed.  She  has  always  watch- 
ed over  me  like  a — like  a  mother,"  said  Zillah, 
while  tears  stood  in  her  eyes. 

"  Ah  !"  said  the  chief;  and  for  a  time  he  lost 
himself  in  thought. 

"  How  many  years  is  it,"  he  resumed,  "  sincp 
your  father  died  ?" 

"About  five  years." 

"  How  long  was  this  Gualtier  with  you  before 
his  death  ?" 

"About  six  months." 

"Did  your  father  ever  show  any  particular 
confidence  in  him  ?" 

"  No.  He  merely  thought  him  a  good  teach- 
er, and  conscientious  in  his  work.  He  never 
took  any  particular  notice  of  him." 

' '  What  was  your  father  ?" 

"A  landed  gentleman." 

"Where  did  he  live?" 

"Sometimes  in  Berks,  sometimes  in  Lon- 
don," said  Zillah,  in  general  terms.  But  the 
cb.ief  did  not  know  any  thing  about  Knglisli 
geograpLy,  and  did  not  pursue  this  question  any 
further.  It  would  have  resulted  in  nothing  if  he 
had  done  so,  for  Zillah  was  determined,  at  all 
hazards,  to  guard  liar  secret. 

' '  Did  you  ever  notice  Gualtier's  manner  ?" 
continued  the  chief,  after  .-  •'other  pause. 

"  No ;  I  never  paid  any  attention  to  him,  nor 
ever  took  any  particular  notice  of  any  thing  about 
him.  He  always  seemed  a  quiet  and  inoffensive 
kind  of  a  man." 

"  What  do  you  think  of  him  now  ?" 

"I  can  scarcely  say  what.  He  is  a  villain, 
of  course;  but  why,  or  what  he  could  gain  by 
it,  is  a  mystery." 

"Do  you  remember  any  thing  that  you  can 
now  recall  which  in  any  way  looks  like  villainy?" 

"No,  not  one  thing;  and  that  is  the  trouble 
with  me." 

"Did  he  ever  have  any  quarrel  of  any  kind 
with  any  of  you  ?" 

"Never." 

"Was  any  thing  ever  done  which  he  could 
have  taken  as  an  insult  or  an  injury  ?" 

"  He  was  never  treated  in  any  other  way  than 
with  the  most  scrupulous  politeness.  My  father, 
my  sister,  and  myself  were  all  incapable  of  treat- 
ing him  in  any  other  way." 

' '  What  was  your  sister's  usual  manner  toward 
him  ?" 

' '  Her  manner  ?  Oh,  the  usual  dignified  court- 
esy of  a  lady  to  an  inferior." 

"  Did  he  seem  to  be  a  gentleman  ?" 

' '  A  gentleman  ?    Of  course  ""*. " 

"  He  could  not  have  imagined  himself  slight- 
ed, then,  by  any  luimiliation  ?" 

"Certainly  not  " 

"  Could  Gualtiti-  have  had  any  knowledge  of 
your  pecuniary  affairs?" 

"  I'ossibly — in  a  general  way." 


T!"Pfn»?<WBWwjpp»*pwp»TW?''»'W5yw'5^!«!!^^ 


104 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM, 


"You  are  rich,  are  you  not  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Might  he  not  have  had  some  design  on  your 
money  ?" 

"I  have  thought  of  that;  but  there  are  insu- 
perable ditiiculties.  There  is,  first,  my  sister: 
and,  again,  even  if  she  had  not  escaped,  how 
could  he  over  get  possession  of  the  property  ?" 

The  chief  did  not  answer  this,  lie  went  on  to 
ask  his  own  questions. 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  of  the  loss  of  any  of  your 
money  in  any  way— by  theft,  or  by  forgery?" 


"No." 

"Did  any  thing  of  the  kind  take  place  in  your 
father's  lifetime  ?" 

"  Nothing  of  the  kind  whatever." 

"Do  you  know  any  thing  about  the  anteced- 
ents of  your  maid  Mathilde  ?" 

"No;  nothing  except  what  little  information 
she  may  have  volunteered.  I  never  had  any  curi- 
osity about  the  matter." 

"  What  is  her  full  name  ?" 

"  Mathilde  Louise  Grassier. " 

"  Where  does  she  belong  ?" 


% 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


105 


Q 
H 


III 

O 

(II 
H 

3 

w 

a 

H 

it 

;4 


H 


"  She  said  once  that  she  was  bom  in  Rouen ; 
and  I  suppose  she  waa  brought  up  there,  tpo, 
from  her  frequent  references  to  that  place.  I 
believe  she  went  from  there  to  Paris,  as  lady's- 
maid  in  an  £nglish  family,  and  from  thence  to 
London." 

"  IIow  did  you  happen  to  get  her?" 

" My  father  obtained  her  for  me  in  London." 

"  What  is  her  character?    Is  she  cunning?" 

"  Not  as  fur  as  1  have  ever  seen.  She  always 
struck  me  as  being  quite  weak  out  of  her  own 
particular  department.  She  was  an  excellent 
lady's-maid,  but  in  other  respects  quite  a  child." 

"Might  she  not  have  been  very  deep,  never- 
theless ?" 

"  It  is  possible.  I  am  not  much  of  a  judge  of 
character ;  but,  as  far  as  I  could  see,  she  was 
simply  a  weak,  good-natured  creature.  I  don't 
think  she  would  willingly  do  wrong ;  but  I  think 
she  might  be  very  easily  terrified  or  persuaded. 
I  think  her  flight  from  me  was  the  work  of  Gual- 
tier." 

' '  Did  she  ever  have  any  thing  to  do  with  him  ?  " 

"I  never  saw  them  together;  in  fact,  when- 
ever he  was  in  the  house  she  was  always  in  my 
room.  I  don't  see  how  it  is  possible  that  there 
could  have  been  any  understanding  between 
them.  For  several  years  she  was  under  my  con- 
stant supervision,  and  if  any  thing  of  the  kind 
had  hajjpened  I  would  certainly  recall  it  now, 
even  if  I  had  not  noticed  it  at  the  time. " 

"Did  you  ever  have  any  trouble  with  Ma- 
thilde?" 

' '  None  whatever. " 

"Weak  natures  are  sometimes  vengeful.  Did 
Mathilde  ever  experience  any  treatment  which 
might  have  excited  vengeful  feelings  ?" 

"  She  never  experienced  any  thing  but  kind- 
ness." 

"  Did  your  sister  treat  her  with  the  same  kind- 
ness ?" 

"Oh  yes — quite  so." 

"When  she  lived  in  England  did  she  ever 
speak  about  leaving  you,  and  going  back  to 
France  ?" 

"No,  never." 

"She  seemed  quite  contented  then?" 

"Quite." 

"  But  she  left  you  very  suddenly  at  last.  IIow 
do  you  account  for  that?" 

"On  the  simple  grounds  that  she  found  her- 
self in  her  own  country,  and  did  not  wish  to 
leave  it ;  and  then,  also,  her  dread  of  a  sea  voy- 
age. But,  in  addition  to  this,  I  think  that  Gual- 
tier  must  have  worked  upon  her  in  some  way. " 

"How?     By  bribery?" 

"  I  can  scarcely  think  that,  for  she  was  better 
off  witii  me.     Her  situation  was  very  profitable. " 

"In  what  way,  then,  could  he  have  worked 
upon  her  ?     By  menaces  ?" 

"Perhaps  so." 

"  But  how  ?  Can  you  think  of  any  thing  in 
your  situation  which  would,  by  any  possibility, 
put  any  ons  who  might  be  your  maid  in  any 
danger,  or  in  any  fear  of  some  imaginary  dan- 
ger?" 

At  this  question  Zillah  thought  immediately 
of  her  assumed  name,  and  the  possibility  that 
Gualtier  might  have  reminded  Mathilde  of  tiiis, 
and  terrified  her  in  some  way.  But  she  could 
not  explain  this ;  and  so  she  said,  unhesitatingly, 

"No." 


The  chief  of  police  was  now  silent  and  medi- 
tative for  some  time. 

"  Your  sister,"  said  he  at  length — "  how  much 
older  is  she  than  you  ?" 

"  About  four  years." 

"  You  have  said  that  she  is  clever?" 

' '  She  is  very  clever. " 

"  And  that  she  manages  the  affairs  ?" 

"Altogether.  I  know  nothing  about  them. 
I  do  not  even  know  the  amount  of  my  income. 
She  keeps  the  accounts,  and  makes  all  the  pur- 
chases and  the  payments — that  is,  of  course,  she 
used  to." 

"What  is  her  character  otherwise?  Is  she 
experienced  at  all  in  the  world,  or  is  she  easily 
imposed  upon?" 

' '  She  is  very  acute,  very  quick,  and  is  thor- 
oughly practical. " 

"  Do  you  think  she  is  one  whom  it  would  be 
easy  to  impose  upon  ?" 

"  I  know  that  such  a  thing  would  be  extreme- 
ly diflScult.  She  is  one  of  those  persons  who  ac- 
quii'e  the  ascendency  wherever  she  goes.  She  is 
far  better  educated,  far  more  accomplished,  and 
far  more  clever  than  I  am,  or  can  ever  hope  to 
be.  She  is  dea"- -headed  and  clear-sighted,  with 
a  large  store  of  common-sense.  To  impose  upon 
her  would  be  difficult,  if  not  impossible.  She  is 
very  quick  to  discern  character. " 

"  And  yet  she  trusted  this  Gualtier?" 

"She  did ;  and  that  is  a  thing  which  is  inex- 
plicable to  me.  I  can  only  account  for  it  on  the 
ground  that  she  had  known  him  so  long,  and 
had  been  so  accustomed  to  his  obsequiousness 
and  apparent  conscientiousness,  that  her  usual 
penetration  was  at  fault.  I  think  she  trusted 
him,  as  I  would  have  done,  partly  because  there 
was  no  other,  and  partly  out  of  habit." 

"  What  did  you  say  was  the  name  of  the  place 
where  you  were  living  when  your  sister  met  with 
her  accident?" 

"Tenby." 

"Was  Gualtier  living  in  the  place?"  '     , 

"No." 

"Where  was  he?" 

"In  London." 

"  How  did  your  sister  know  that  he  was  there?" 

"  I  can  not  tell. " 

"  Did  you  know  where  he  was  ?"  .    ,: 

"  I  knew  nothing  about  him.  But  my  sister 
managed  our  affairs ;  and  when  Gualtier  left  us 
I  dare  say  he  gave  his  address  to  my  sister,  in 
case  of  our  wanting  his  services  again." 

"You  dismissed  Gualtier,  I  suppose,  because 
you  had  no  longer  need  for  his  services?" 

"Yes." 

"  You  say  that  she  never  treated  him  with  any 
particular  attention  ?" 

"  (.)n  the  contrary,  she  never  showed  any  thing 
but  marked  hauteur  toward  him.  I  was  indiffer- 
ent— she  took  trouble  to  be  dignified." 

"  Have  you  any  living  relatives  ?" 

"  No — none." 

"  Neither  on  the  father's  side  nor  the  mo- 
ther's ?" 

"No."  .\( 

"  Have  you  no  guardian  ?" 

"  At  my  father's  death  there  was  a  guardian — 
a  nominal  one — but  he  left  the  country,  and  we 
have  never  seen  him  since. " 

" He  is  not  now  in  England,  then?" 

"No." 


'If win.Mjiiiupijgu  jupij.i;  iiiili;Miil.ini>IWIWr*'." 


"»MflMBipi:JI.!M  Ii!||ipi  W.*; 


106 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


» 


Tlie  chief  of  police  seemed  now  to  have  ex- 
hausted his  questions.  He  rose,  and,  with  renew- 
ed apologies  for  the  trouble  which  he  had  given, 
left  the  room.  Obed  and  Windham  followed, 
and  the  former  invited  him  to  the  library — a  room 
which  was  called  by  that  name  from  the  fact  that 
tliere  was  a  book -shelf  in  it  containing  a  few 
French  novels.  Here  they  sat  in  silence  for  a 
time,  and  at  lem^th  the  chief  began  to  tell  his 
conclusions. 

"I  generally  keep  my  mind  to  myself,"  said 
he,  "but  it  is  very  necessary  for  you  to  know 
what  I  conceive  to  be  the  present  aspect  of  this 
very  important  case.  Let  us  see,  then,  how  I 
would  analyze  it. 

"lu  the  first  place,  remark  the  position  of  the 
(/irk. 

"Two  young,  inexperienced  girls,  rich,  alore 
in  the  world,  without  any  relatives  or  any  connec- 
tions, manajj'ing  theiv  own  afJairs,  living  in  dif- 
ferent places — such  is  the  condition  of  the  prin- 
cipals in  this  matter.  The  guardian  whom  their 
father  left  has  disappeared — gone  perhaps  to 
America,  perhaps  to  India — no  matter  where. 
He  is  out  of  their  reach. 

"These  are  the  ones  with  whom  this  Gualtier 
comes  in  contact.  He  is  apparently  a  very  or- 
dinary man,  perhaps  somewhat  cunning,  and  no 
doubt  anxious  to  make  his  way  in  the  world. 
He  is  one  of  those  men  who  can  be  honest  as 
long  as  he  is  forced  to  be :  but  who,  the  moment 
the  pressure  is  taken  off,  cm  pei-petrate  crime 
for  his  own  interests,  without  pity  or  remorse. 
I  know  the  type  well^eold-blooded,  cunning, 
selfish,  hypocritical,  secretive,  without  much  in- 
tellect, cowardly,  but  still,  under  certain  circum- 
stances, ca])able  of  great  boldness.  So  Gualtier 
seems  to  me. 

"He  was  in  constant  connection  with  these 
girls  for  five  or  six  years.  During  that  time  he 
must  have  learned  nil  about  thom  and  their  af- 
fairs. He  certainly  must  have  learned  how  com- 
pletely they  were  isolated,  and  how  rich  they 
were.  Yet  I  do  not  believe  that  he  iver  had  any 
thought  during  all  that  time  of  venturing  upon 
any  plot  against  them. 

"  It  was  Fate  itself  that  threw  into  his  hands 
an  opportunity  that  could  not  be  neglected.  For, 
mark  you,  what  an  unparalleled  opportunity  it 
was.  One  of  these  sisters — the  elder,  the  man- 
ager of  affairs,  and  guardian  of  the  other — meets 
with  an  accident  so  extraordinary  that  it  would 
be  incredible,  were  it  not  told  in  her  own  hand- 
writing. She  finds  herself  in  Naples,  ill,  friend- 
less, and  but  recently  saved  from  death.  She 
can  not  travel  to  join  her  sister,  so  she  writes  to 
her  sister  to  come  to  her  in  Naples.  But  how 
can  that  young  sister  come  ?  It  is  a  long  jour- 
ney, and  difficult  for  a  friendless  girl.  She  has 
no  friends,  so  the  cV.l^r  Miss  Lorton  thinks  very 
naturally  of  the  faithful  mtisic-teacher,  whom  she 
has  known  so  long,  and  who  is  nov/  in  London. 
She  writes  him,  telling  him  the  state  of  affairs, 
and  no  doubt  offers  him  a  sufficient  sum  of  mon- 
ey to  reward  him  for  giving  up  his  practice  for  a 
time.  The  same  day  that  her  sister  received  her 
letter,  he  also  receives  his. 

"Can  you  not  see  what  effect  this  startling 
situation  would  have  on  such  a  man  ?  Here,  in 
brief,  he  could  see  a  chance  for  making  his  for- 
tune, and  getting  po8sessior<  of  the  wealth  of  these 
two.     By  making  way  mth  them,  one  after  the 


other,  it  could  easily  be  done.  He  had  no  pity 
in  his  nature,  an-'  no  conscience  in  particidar  to 
trouble  him.  Nor  were  there  any  fears  of  future 
consequences  to  deter  him.  These  friendless 
girls  would  never  be  missed.  They  could  pass 
away  from  the  scene,  and  no  avenger  couhl  pos- 
sibly rise  up  to  demand  an  account  of  them  at 
his  hands.  No  doubt  he  was  forming  his  plans 
from  the  day  of  the  receipt  of  his  letter  all  the 
way  to  Marseilles. 

"Now,  in  the  plot  wnich  he  formed  tnd  car- 
ried out,  I  see  several  successive  steps. 

"The  first  step,  of  course,  was  to  get  rid  of 
the  maid  Mathilde.  Miss  Lorton's  description 
of  her  enables  us  to  see  how  easily  this  could  be 
accomplished.  She  was  a  timid  creatr-i-e,  who 
does  not  seem  to  have  been  malicioi'.:^,  nor  does 
sh"  seem  tp  Lave  hail  any  idea  of  fidelity.  Gual- 
tier may  either  have  cajoled  her,  or  terrified  hor. 
It  is  also  possible  that  lie  may  have  bought  her. 
This  may  afterwara  be  known  when  we  find  the 
woman  herself. 

"  The  next  step  is  evident.  It  was  to  get  rid 
of  the  younger  Miss  Lorton,  with  whom  lie  was 
traveling.  It  was  easy  to  do  this  on  account  of 
her  friendlessness  and  inexperience.  How  he 
succeeded  in  doing  it  we  have  heard  from  her 
own  lips.  He  trumped  up  that  story  about  the 
steamers  not  running,  and  obtained  her  consent 
to  go  in  a  yacht.  This,  of  coiu'se,  placed  her 
alone  in  his  power.  He  picked  tip  a  crew  of 
scoundrels,  set  sail,  and  on  the  second  night  scut- 
tled the  vessel,  and  fled.  Something  prevented 
the  vessel  from  sinking,  and  his  intended  victim 
was  saved. 

"  Now  what  is  his  third  step  ? 

"Of  course  there  can  be  only  one  thing,  and 
that  third  step  will  be  an  attempt  of  a  similar  kind 
against  the  elder  Miss  Lorton.  If  it  is  not  too 
late  to  guard  against  this  we  must  do  so  at  once. 
He  is  probably  with  her  now.  He  can  easily 
work  upon  her.  He  can  repiesent  to  her  that 
her  sister  is  ill  at  Marseilles,  and  induce  her  to 
come  here.  He  can  not  deceive  her  about  the 
steamers,  but  he  may  happen  to  find  her  just 
after  the  departure  of  the  steamer,  and  she,  in 
her  impatience,  may  consent  to  go  in  a  sailing 
vessel,  to  meet  the  same  fate  which  he  designed 
for  her  sister. 

"After  this,  to  complete  my  analysis  of  this 
man's  proceedings,  there  remains  the  fourth 
step. 

"  Having  got  rid  of  the  sisters,  the  next  pur- 
pose will  be  to  obtain  their  property.  Now  if 
he  is  left  to  himself,  he  will  find  this  very  easy. 

"I  have  no  doubt  that  he  has  made  himself 
fully  acquainted  with  all  their  investments ;  or, 
if  he  has  not,  he  will  find  enough  among  their 
papers,  which  will  now  be  opan  to  him.  He  can 
correspond  with  their  agenis,  or  forge  drafts,  or 
forge  a  power  of  attorney  for  himself,  and  thus 
secure  gradually  a  control  of  all.  There  are 
many  ways  by  which  a  man  in  his  situation  can 
obtain  all  that  he  wishes.  Their  bankers  seem 
to  be  purely  business  agents,  and  they  have  ap- 
parently no  one  who  takes  a  deeper  interest  in 
them. 

"And  now  the  thing  to  be  done  is  to  head 
him  off.     This  may  be  done  in  various  ways. 

"  First,  to  prevent  the  fulfillment  of  his  design 
on  the  elder  Miss  Lorton,  I  can  send  oft"  a  mes- 
sage at  once  to  the  Neapolitan  government,  and 


THE  CRYrTOGRAM. 


107 


obtain  the  agency  of  the  Neapolitan  police  to 
secure  his  arrest.  If  he  is  very  prompt  he  may 
have  succeeded  in  leaving  Naples  with  his  victim 
hefore  this ;  but  there  is  a  chance  that  he  is  rent- 
ing on  his  oars,  and,  perhaps,  deferring  the  im- 
mediate prosecution  of  the  third  step.  | 

"Secondly,  I  must  put  my  machinery  to  work 
to  discover  the  maid  Mathilde,  and  secure  her 
arrest.  She  will  be  a  most  important  witness 
in  the  case.  If  she  is  a  partner  in  Gualtier's 
guilt,  she  can  clear  up  the  whole  mystery. 

"Thirdly,  we  must  have  information  of  all 
this  sent  to  Miss  Lorton's  bankers  in  London, 
and  her  solicitors,  so  as  to  prevent  Gualtier  from 
accomiilishing  his  fourth  step,  and  also  in  order 
to  secure  their  co-operation  in  laying  a  trap  for 
him  which  will  certainly  insure  his  capture. 

"As  for  the  younger  Miss  Lorton,  she  had  bet- 
ter remain  ■  Marseilles  for  six  or  eight  weeks, 
so  that  if  the  elder  Miss  Lorton  should  escape 
she  may  find  her  here.  Meantime  the  Neapoli- 
tan police  will  take  care  of  her,  if  she  is  in  Naples, 
and  communicate  to  her  where  her  sister  is,  so 
that  she  can  join  her,  or  write  her.  At  any  rate, 
Miss  Lorton  must  be  persuaded  to  wait  here  till 
she  hears  from  her  sister,  or  of  her." 

Other  things  were  yet  to  be  done  before  the 
preliminary  examinations  could  be  completed. 

The  first  was  the  examination  of  the  man  who 
had  disposed  of  the  yacht  to  Gualtier.  He  was 
found  without  any  difficulty,  and  brought  before 
the  cliief.  It  seems  he  was  a  common  broker, 
who  had  bought  tlie  vesj-xl  ut  auction,  on  specu- 
lation, because  the  price  was  so  low.  He  knew 
uothing  whatever  about  nautical  matters,  and 
h'lted  the  sea.  He  had  hardly  ever  been  on 
board  of  her,  and  had  never  examined  her.  He 
merely  held  her  in  his  possession  till  he  could 
find  a  chance  of  selling  her.  He  had  sold  her 
for  more  than  double  the  money  that  he  had  paid 
for  her,  and  thought  the  speculation  had  turned  ' 
out  very  good.  Nothing  had  ever  been  old  him 
as  to  any  peculiarity  in  the  construction  of  the 
yacht.  As  far  as  he  knew,  the  existence  of  such 
could  not  have  been  found  out. 

On  being  asked  whether  the  purchaser  had  as- 
signed any  reason  for  buying  the  vessel,  he  said 
no ;  and  from  that  fact  the  chief  seemed  to  form 
a  more  respectful  opinion  of  Gualtier  than  he 
had  hitherto  appeared  to  entertain.  Common 
cunning  would  have  been  profuse  in  stating  mo- 
tives, and  have  given  utterance  to  any  number 
of  lies.  But  Gualtier  took  refuge  in  silence.  He 
bought  the  vessel,  and  said  nothing  about  mo- 
tives or  reasons.  And,  indeed,  why  should  he 
have  done  so  ? 

Obed  and  Windham  visited  the  yacht,  in  com- 
pany with  the  chief.  She  was  in  the  dry  dock, 
and  the  water  had  flowed  out  from  her,  leaving 
her  open  for  inspection.  Zillah's  trunks  were 
taken  out  and  conveyed  to  her,  though  their  con- 
tents were  not  in  a  condition  which  might  make 
them  of  any  future  value.  Still,  all  Zillah's  jew- 
elry was  there,  and  all  the  little  keepsakes  which 
hud  accumulated  during  her  past  life.  The  re- 
covery of  her  trunks  gave  her  the  greatest  de- 
light. 

A  very  careful  examination  of  the  yacht  was 
made  by  the  chief  of  police  and  his  two  compan- 
ions. In  front  was  a  roomy  forecastle ;  in  the 
stern  was  a  spacious  cabin,  with  an  after-cabin 
adjoining ;  between  the  two  was  the  hold.     On 


close  examination,  however,  an  iron  bulkhead 
was  found,  which  ran  the  whole  length  of  the 
yacht  on  each  side.  This  had  evidently  been 
qiute  unknown  to  Gualtier.  He  and  his  crew 
had  scuttled  the  vessel,  leaving  it,  as  they  sup- 
posed, to  sink ;  but  she  could  not  sink,  for  the 
uir-tight  compartments,  like  those  of  a  life-boat, 
kept  her  afloat. 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

TOO    MUCH    TOGETHER. 

Windham  had  exhibited  the  deepest  interest 
in  all  these  investigations.  On  the  day  after 
Zillah's  interview  with  the  chief  of  police  he 
called  and  informed  them  that  his  business  in 
En'j;lp.id,  though  important,  was  not  pressing, 
and  t  mt  he  intended  to  remain  in  Marseilles  for 
a  few  "ys,  partly  for  the  sake  of  seeing  how  the 
investigations  of  the  police  would  turn  out,  and 
partly,  as  he  said,  for  the  sake  of  enjoying  a  lit- 
tle more  of  the  society  of  his  friend  (^hute. 
Thenceforth  he  spent  very  much  of  his  time  at 
Chute's  hotel,  and  Zillah  and  he  saw  very  much 
of  one  another.  Perhaps  it  was  the  fact  that  he 
only  was  altogether  of  Zillah's  own  order ;  or  it 
may  have  been  the  general  charm  of  his  manner, 
his  noble  presence,  his  elevated  sentiments,  his 
rich,  full,  ringing  English  voice.  Whatever  it 
may  have  been,  however,  she  did  not  conceal  the 
pleasure  which  his  society  afforded  her.  She 
was  artless  and  open  ;  her  feelings  expressed 
themselves  readily,  and  were  made  manifest  in 
her  looks  and  gestures.  Still,  there  was  a  mel- 
ancholy behind  all  this  which  Windham  could 
not  but  notice — a  melancholy  penetrating  far  be- 
neath the  surface  talk  in  which  they  both  in- 


1ffrp^i";pfUl»  """fl.  •i»r' -xi  _i^nif,''"r^.'»r'".r'»'/7'i^"T"rf-T'-.M»^-it^i»jfff^,  hi^^^ 


108 


THE  CRYrTOGRAM. 


n 


dulged.  Ho,  on  his  part,  revealed  to  Zillah  un- 
mistakably the  same  profound  melancholy  which 
has  already  been  mentioned.  (She  tried  to  con- 
jecture what  it  was,  and  thought  of  no  other 
thing  than  the  bereavement  which  was  indicated 
'<y  the  somhro  emblem  on  his  hat.  Between 
these  two  there  was  never  laughter,  rarely  levity ; 
but  their  conversation,  when  it  turned  even  on 
trifles,  was  earnest  and  sincere.  Day  after  day 
passed,  and  each  interview  grew  to  be  more 
pleasant  than  the  preceding  one.  Often  Obed 
Chute  joined  in  the  conversation  ;  but  their 
minds  were  of  a  totally  different  order  from  his; 
and  never  did  they  feel  this  so  strongly  as  when 
some  liard,  dry,  practical,  and  thoroughly  sensi- 
ble remark  broke  in  upon  some  little  delicate 
flight  of  fancy  in  which  they  had  been  indulging. 
(Jne  day  Windham  came  to  propose  a  lie. 
Zillah  assented  eagerly.  Obed  did  not  caie  to 
go,  as  he  was  anxious  to  call  on  the  chief  of  po- 
lice. So  Zillah  and  Windham  rode  out  togeth- 
er into  the  country,  and  took  the  road  by  the  sea 
coast,  where  it  winds  on,  commanding  magnifi- 
cent sea  views  or  sublime  prospects  of  distant 
mountains  at  almost  every  turning.  Hitherto 
they  had  always  avoided  speaking  of  England. 
Each  seemed  instinctively  to  shun  the  mention 
of  that  name ;  nor  did  either  ever  seek  to  draw 
the  other  out  on  that  subject.  What  might  be 
tiie  rank  of  either  at  home,  or  the  associations  or 
connections,  neither  ever  ventured  to  inquire. 
Each  usually  spoke  on  any  subject  of  a  general 
nature  which  seemed  to  come  nearest.  On  this 
occasion,  however,  Windham  made  a  first  at- 
tempt toward  speaking  about  himself  and  his 
past.  Something  ha])pened  to  suggest  India.  It 
was  only  with  a  mighty  ett'ort  that  Zillah  kept 
down  an  impulse  to  rhapsodize  about  that  glori- 
ous land,  where  all  her  childhood  had  been  passed, 
and  whose  scenes  were  still  impressed  so  vividly 
upon  her  memory.  The  effort  at  self-restraint 
was  successful ;  nor  did  she  by  any  word  show 
how  well  known  to  her  were  those  Indian  scenes 
of  which  Windham  went  on  to  speak.  He  talked 
of  tiger  hunts  ;  of  long  journeys  through  the  hot 
plain  or  over  the  lofty  mountain ;  of  desjierate 
fights  with  savage  tribes.  At  length  he  spoke 
of  the  Indian  mutiny.  He  had  been  at  Delhi, 
and  had  taken  part  in  the  conflict  and  in  the  tri- 
umph. What  particular  part  he  had  taken  he  did 
not  say,  but  he  seemed  to  have  been  in  the  tliick 
of  the  fight  wherever  it  raged.  Carried  away  by 
the  glorious  recollections  that  crowded  upon  his 
memory,  he  rose  to  a  higher  eloquence  than  any 
which  he  had  before  attempted.  The  passion  of 
the  fight  came  back.  He  mentioned  by  name 
glorious  companions  in  arms.  He  told  of  heroic 
exploits — dasiiing  acts  of  almost  superhuman 
valor,  where  human  nature  became  ennobled  and 
man  learned  the  possibilities  of  man.  The  fer- 
vid excitement  that  burned  in  his  soul  was  com- 
municated to  the  fiery  nature  of  Zillah,  who  was 
always  so  quick  to  catch  the  contagion  of  any 
noble  emotion ;  his  admiration  for  all  that  was 
elevated  and  true  and  pure  found  an  echo  in  the 
heart  of  her  who  was  the  daughter  of  General 
i'omeroy  and  the  pupil  of  Lord  Chetwynde. 
Having  herself  breathed  all  her  life  an  atmos- 
phere of  noble  seniiments,  her  nature  exulted 
in  the  words  of  this  high-souled,  this  chivalric 
man,  who  himself,  fresh  from  a  scene  which 
had  tried  men's  souls  as  tfiey  had  not  been  tried 


for  many  an  age,  had  shared  the  dangers  and 
the  triumphs  of  those  who  had  fought  and  con- 
quered there.  No,  never  before  had  Zillah 
known  such  hours  as  these,  where  she  was 
brought  face  to  face  witii  a  hero  whose  eye, 
whose  voice,  whose  manner,  made  her  whole 
being  thrill,  and  whose  bentinieiits  found  an  echo 
in  her  inmost  soul. 

And  did  Windham  perceive  this  ?  Could  he  • 
help  it?  Could  he  avoid  se^iin^-  the  dark  olive 
face  which  flushed  deep  at  his  woi  Js — the  large, 
liquid,  luminous  eyes  which,  ben'.ath  those  deep- 
fringed  lids,  lighted  up  with  the  glorious  fires  of 
that  fervid  soul — the  delicate  frame  that  quiv- 
ered in  the  strong  excitement  of  impassioned 
feelings  ?  Could  he  avoid  seeing  that  tiiis  creat- 
ure of  feeling  and  of  passion  thrilled  or  calmed, 
grew  indignant  or  pitiful,  became  stern  or  tear- 
ful, just  as  he  gave  the  word  ?  Could  he  help 
seeing  that  it  was  in  his  power  to  strike  the  key- 
note to  which  all  her  sensitive  nature  would  re- 
spond ? 

Yet  in  all  Zillah's  excitement  of  feeling  she 
never  asked  any  questions.  No  mat.  :r  what 
might  be  the  intensity  of  desire  that  filled  her, 
she  never  forgot  to  restrain  her  curiosity.  Had 
she  not  heard  before  of  this  regiment  and  that 
regiment  from  the  letters  of  Guy?  Windham 
seemed  to  have  been  in  many  of  the  places  men- 
tioned in  those  letters.  This  was  natural,  as  he 
belonged  to  the  army  which  had  taken  Delhi. 
But  in  addition  to  this  there  was  another  wen 
der — there  were  those  hill  stations  in  which  she 
had  lived,  of  which  Windham  spoke  so  familiar- 
ly. Of  course — she  thought  after  due  reflection 
— every  British  oflicer  in  the  north  of  India  must 
be  familiar  with  places  which  are  their  common 
resort ;  but  it  affected  her  strangely  at  first ;  for 
hearing  him  speak  of  them  was  like  hearing  one 
speak  of  home. 

Another  theme  of  conversation  was  found  in 
his  eventful  voyage  from  India.  He  told  her 
about  the  or.tbreak  of  the  flames,  the  alarm  of 
the  passengers,  the  coward  mob  of  panic-strick- 
en wretches,  who  had  lost  all  manliness  and  all 
human  feeling  in  their  abject  fear.  Then  he  de- 
scribed the  tall  form  of  Obed  Chute  as  it  towered 
above  the  crowd.  Olied,  according  to  Wind- 
ham's account,  when  he  first  saw  him,  had  two 
men  by  their  collars  in  one  hand,  while  in  the 
other  he  held  his  revolver.  His  voice  with  its 
shrill  accent  rang  out  "Ve  a  trumpet  peal  os  he 
threatened  to  blow  o;  ^  brains  of  any  man 
who  dared  to  touch  a  boui,  or  to  go  off  the  quar- 
ter-deck. While  he  threatened  he  also  taunted 
them,  "you  Britishers!"  he  cried.  "If  you 
are — which  T  doubt — then  I'm  ashamed  of  tlie 
mother  country." 

Now  it  happened  that  Obed  Chute  had  al- 
ready givi^n  to  Zillah  a  full  description  of  his 
first  view  of  Windham,  on  that  same  occasion. 
As  he  stood  with  his  revolver,  he  saw  Windham, 
he  said — pale,  stern,  S'  ..'-possessed,  but  active, 
with  a  line  of  passengers  formed,  who  were  busy 
passing  buckets  along,  and  he  was  just  detail- 
ing half  a  dozen  to  relieve  the  sailors  at  the 
pumps.  "That  man,"  concluded  Obed  Chute, 
"had  already  got  to  work,  while  I  was  indulg- 
ing in  a  'spread-eagle.'" 

Windham,  however,  said  nothing  of  himself, 
so  that  Zillah  might  have  supposed,  for  all  that 
he  said,  that  he  himself  was  one  of  that  panic- 


i 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


109 


stricken  crf^vd  whom  Obed  Chute  had  reviled 
iind  thrcateii''d. 

Nor  was  um  all.  These  rides  were  repented 
every  diiy.  Obed  Chute  declared  that  tliis  was 
tiie  best  thing  for  iier  in  tiie  world,  and  that  she 
must  go  out  as  often  as  was  possible.  Zillah 
made  no  objection.  So  the  pleasure  was  re- 
newed from  day  to  day.  Rut  Windham  could 
speak  of  other  things  than  battle,  and  murder, 
and  sudden  death.  lie  was  deeply  read  in  lit- 
eratiu'e.  He  loviid  poetry  with  passionate  ar- 
(loi.  All  English  poetry  was  ''.miliar  to  him. 
Tlie  early  English  metrical  romance,  llhaucer, 
ISpenser,  the  Elizabethan  dramatists,  Waller, 
Marvell,  and  Cowley,  Lovelace  and  Suckling, 
were  al).  appreciated  fidly.  lie  had  admira- 
tion for  the  poets  of  the  Restoration ;  he  had 
no  words  to  express  the  adoration  which  he  felt 
for  Milton ;  Gray  and  Collins  he  knew  by  heart ; 
Thomson  and  Cowper  he  could  mention  with 
appreciation ;  while  the  great  school  of  the  Rev- 
olutionary poets  rivaled  all  the  rest  in  the  admi- 
ration which  they  extorted  from  him.  Tenny- 
son and  the  Hrownings  were,  however,  most  in 
his  thoughts ;  and  as  these  were  equally  dear  to 
Zillah,  they  met  on  common  ground.  What 
struck  Zillah  most  was  the  fact  that  occasional 
stray  bits,  which  she  had  seen  in  magazines,  and 
had  treasured  in  her  head,  were  equally  known, 
and  equally  loved  by  this  man,  who  would  re- 
peat them  to  her  with  bis  full  melodious  voice, 
Riving  thus  a  new  emphasis  and  a  new  meaning 
to  words  whose  meaning  she  thought  she  al- 
ready felt  to  the  full.  In  these  was  a  deeper 
meaning,  as  Windham  said  them,  than  she  had 
ever  known  before.  He  himself  seemed  to  have 
felt  the  meaning  of  some  of  these.  What  else 
;ould  have  caused  that  tremulous  tone  which,  in 
its  deep  musical  vibrations,  made  these  words 
ring  deep  within  her  heart?  Was  there  not  a 
profounder  meaning  in  the  mind  of  this  man, 
whose  dark  eyes  rested  upon  hers  with  such  an 
unfathomable  depth  of  tenderness  and  sympathy 
— those  eyes  which  had  in  them  such  a  magnetic 
power  that  even  when  her  head  was  turned  away 
she  could  feel  them  vestini;  upon  her,  and  knew 
that  he  was  looking  at  her — with  what  deep  rev- 
erence !  with  what  unutterable  longing !  with 
what  despair !  Yes,  despair.  For  on  this  man's 
face,  with  all  the  reverence  and  longing  which  it 
expressed,  there  was  ilever  any  hope,  there  was 
never  any  look  of  inquiry  after  sympathy ;  it  was 
mute  reverence — silent  adoration ;  the  look  that 
one  may  cast  upon  a  divinity,  content  with  the 
offer  of  adoration,  but  never  dreaming  of  a  re- 
turn. 

The  days  flew  by  like  lightning.  Zillah  passed 
them  in  a  kind  cf  dream.  She  only  seemed 
awake  when  Windham  came.  When  he  left,  all 
was  barrenness  and  desolation.  Time  passed, 
but  she  thought  nothing  of  Naples.  Obed  had 
explained  to  her  the  necessity  of  waiting  at  Mar- 
seilles till  fresh  news  should  come  from  Hilda, 
and  had  been  surprised  at  the  ease  with  which 
she  liad  been  persuaded  to  stay.  In  fact,  for  a 
time  Hilda  seemed  to  have  departed  out  of  the 
sphere  of  her  thoughts,  into  some  distant  realm 
where  those  thoughts  never  wandered.  She  was 
content  to  remain  here — to  postpone  her  depart- 
ure, and  wait  for  any  thing  at  all.  Sometimes 
she  thought  of  the  end  of  all  this.  For  Wind- 
ham must  one  day  depart.     This  had  to  end. 


It  could  not  last.  And  what  then  ?  Then  ?  Ah 
then !  She  wc  uld  not  think  of  it.  Calamities 
had  fallen  to  her  lot  before,  and  it  now  ap- 
peared to  her  that  another  calamity  was  to  come 
— dark,  indeed,  aiul  dreadful ;  worse,  she  feared, 
than  others  which  she  had  braved  in  her  young 
life. 

For  one  thing  she  felt  grateful.  Windham 
never  ventured  bejond  the  limits  of  friendship. 
To  this  be  had  a  right.  Had  he  not  saved  her 
from  death  ?  But  he  never  seemed  to  think  of 
transgressing  the  strictest  limits  of  conventional 
politeness.  He  never  indulged  at  even  the  faint- 
est attempt  at  a  compliment.  Had  he  even  done 
this  much  it  would  have  been  a  painful  embar- 
rassment. She  would  have  been  forced  to  shrink 
back  into  herself  and  her  dreary  life,  and  put 
an  end  to  such  interviews  forever.  But  the  trial 
did  not  come,  and  she  bad  no  cause  to  shrink 
back.  So  it  was  that  the  bright  golden  hours 
sped  onward,  bearing  on  the  happy,  happy  days ; 
and  Windham  lingered  on,  letting  his  English 
business  go. 

Another  steamer  had  arrived  from  Naples,  and 
yet  anotiier,  but  no  word  came  from  Hilda.  Zil- 
lah had  written  to  her  address,  explaining  every 
thing,  but  no  answer  came.  The  chief  of  police 
had  received  an  answer  to  his  original  message, 
stating  that  the  authorities  at  Naples  would  do 
all  in  their  power  to  fulfill  his  wishes ;  but  since 
then  nothing  further  had  been  communicated. 
His  efforts  to  search  after  Gualtier  and  Mathilde, 
in  France,  were  quite  unsuccessful.  He  urged 
Obed  Chute  and  Miss  Lorton  to  wait  still  longer, 
until  something  definite  might  be  found.  Wind- 
ham waited  also.  Whatever  his  English  busi- 
ness was,  he  deferred  it.  He  was  anxious,  he 
said,  to  see  how  these  efforts  would  turn  out,  and 
he  hoped  to  be  of  u.se  himself. 

Meanwhile  Obed  Chute  had  fitted  up  the 
yacht,  and  had  obliterated  eveiy  mark  of  the  cas- 
ualty with  which  she  had  met.  In  this  the  party 
sometime?  sailed.  Zillah  might  perhaps  have 
objected  to  put  her  foot  on  board  a  vessel  which 
was  associated  with  the  greatest  calamity  of  her 
life ;  but  the  presence  of  Windham  seemed  to 
bring  a  counter-association  which  dispelled  her 
mournful  memories.  She  might  not  fear  to  trust 
herself  in  that  vessel  which  had  once  almost 
been  her  grave,  with  the  man  who  had  saved  her 
from  that  grave.  Windham  showed  himself  a 
first-rate  sailor.  Zillah  wondered  greatly  how 
he  could  have  added  this  to  his  other  accomplish- 
ments, but  did  not  venture  to  ask  him.  There 
was  a  great  gulf  between  them ;  and  to  have 
asked  any  personal  question,  however  slight, 
would  have  been  an  attempt  to  leap  that  gulf. 
She  dared  not  ask  any  thing.  She  herself  Avas 
in  a  false  position.  She  was  living  under  an 
assumed  name,  and  constant  watchfulness  was 
necessary.  The  name  "Lorton"  had  not  yet 
become  familiar  to  her  ears.  Often  when  ad- 
dressed, she  caught  herself  thinking  that  some 
one  else  was  spoken  to.  But  after  all,  as  to  the 
question  of  Windham's  seamanship,  that  was  a 
thing  which  was  not  at  all  wonderful,  since  every 
Englishman  of  any  rank  is  supposed  to  own  a 
yacht,  and  to  know  all  about  it. 

Often  Obed  and  his  family  went  out  with 
them ;  but  often  these  two  went  out  alone.  Per- 
haps there  was  a  conventional  impropriety  in 
this ;  but  neither  Obed  nor  his  sister  thought  of 


y  II  w|i|piii  Mil  uipi^ii.j^a 


no 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


it ;  Windham  certainly  was  not  tlie  one  to  re- 
gard it;  and  Zilluli  was  willing  to  slint  her  eyes 
to  it.  And  so  for  many  days  they  were  tlirown 
together.  Cruising  thus  over  the  Mediterra- 
nean, that  glory  of  .seas — the  blue,  the  dark,  the 
deep — where  the  transimrent  water  shows  the 
sea  depths  far  down,  witli  all  the  wonders  of  the 
sea ;  where  the  bright  atniospliore  show  s  shat-ply 
defined  the  outlines  of  distant  objects — cruising 
here  on  the  Mediterranean,  where  France  stretch- 
es out  her  band  to  Italy ;  where  r)n  the  horizon 
the  purple  hills  arise,  their  to])s  covered  with  a 
diadem  of  snow ;  where  the  uir  breathes  balm, 
and  the  tideless  sea  washes  evermore  the  granite 
base  of  long  mountain  chains,  evermore  wearing 
away  and  scattering  the  debris  along  the  sound- 
ing beach.  Cruising  over  the  Alediten  nean — 
oh !  what  is  there  on  earth  ecjnal  to  tin  .'  Here 
was  a  jilaee,  here  was  scenery,  which  might  re- 
main forever  fixed  in  the  memories  of  both  of 
these,  who  now,  day  after  day,  under  these  cloud- 
less skies,  drifted  along.  Drifting  ?  Yes,  it  was 
drifting.  And  where  were  they  drifting  to? 
Where?  Neither  of  them  asked.  In  fact,  they 
were  drifting  nowhere ;  or,  rather,  they  were 
drifting  to  that  point  where  fate  would  interpose, 
and  sever  them,  to  send  them  onward  upon  their 
different  courses.  They  might  drift  for  a  time ; 
but,  at  last,  they  must  separate,  and  then-  -what  ? 
Would  they  ever  again  reunite?  Would  they 
ever  again  meet?     Who  might  say? 

Drifting ! 

Well,  if  one  drifts  any  where,  the  Mediterrane- 
an is  surely  the  best  place ;  or,  at  least,  the  most 
favorable ;  for  there  all  things  combine  to  favor, 
in  the  highest  'degree,  that  state  of  moral  "drift- 
ing" into  whica  people  sometimes  fall. 

The  time  passed  quickly.  Weeks  flew  by. 
Nothing  new  had  been  discovered.  No  informa- 
tion bad  come  from  Naples.  No  letter  had  come 
from  Hilda.  While  Zillah  waited,  Windham 
also  waited,  and  thus  passed  six  or  seven  weeks 
in  Marseilles,  which  was  rather  a  long  time  for 
one  who  was  hurrying  home  on  important  busi- 
ness. But  he  was  anxious,  he  said,  to  see  the 
result  of  the  investigations  of  the  police.  That 
result  was,  at  length,  made  known.  It  was  no- 
thing; and  the  chief  of  police  advised  Obed 
Chute  to  go  on  without  delay  to  Naples,  and 
urge  the  authorities  there  to  instant  action.  He 
seemed  to  think  that  they  had  neglected  the  busi- 
ness, or  else  attended  to  it  in  such  a  way  that  it 
had  failed  utterly.  He  assured  Obed  Chute  that 
he  would  still  exert  all  his  power  to  track  the 
villain  G«altier,  and,  if  possible,  bring  him  to 
justice.  This,  Obed  believed  that  he  would  do ; 
for  the  chief  had  come  now  to  feel  a  personal  as 
well  as  a  professional  interest  in  the  afi'air,  as 
though  somehow  his  credit  were  at  stake.  Un- 
der these  circumstances,  Obed  prepared  to  take 
his  family  and  Miss  Lorton  to  Naples,  by  the 
next  steamer. 

Windham  said  nothing.  There  was  a  pallor 
on  the  face  of  each  of  them  as  (>bed  told  them 
his  plan — telling  it,  too,  with  the  air  of  one  who 
is  communicating  the  most  joyful  intelligence, 
and  thinking  nothing  of  the  way  in  which  such 
joyous  news  is  received.  Zillah  made  no  ob- 
servation. Involuntarily  her  eyes  sought  those 
of  Windham.  She  read  in  his  face  a  deiJth  of 
despair  which  was  without  hope  —  profound — 
unalterable — unmovable. 


■  That  day  they  took  their  last  ride.  But  few 
words  passed  between  them.  Windham  was 
gloomy  and  taciturn.  Zillah  was  silent  and  sad. 
At  length,  as  they  rode  back,  they  come  to  a 
place  on  the  shore  a  few  miles  away  from  the 
city.  Here  Windham  reined  in  bis  horse,  and, 
as  Zillah  stopped,  he  i)ointed  out  to  the  sea. 

Tlie  sui)  was  setting.     Its  rich  red  light  fell 
full  upon  the  face  of  Zillah,  lighting  it  up  with 
^  liuliant  glory  as  ii  did  on  that  memorable  moni- 
I  ing  when  her  beautiful  face  was  upturned  as  her 
head  lay  upon  his  breast,  and  her  gleaming  ebon 
hair  floated  over  his  shoulders.     He  looked  at 
;  her.     Her  eyes  were  not  closed  now,  as  they 
were  then,  but  looked  back  into  his,  revealing  in 
their  unfathomable  depths  an  abyss  of  melan- 
choly, of  sorrow,  of  lon;(ing,  and  of  tenderness. 

"Miss Lorton,"said  Windham,  in  a  deej)  v'oice, 
which  was  shaken  by  un  uncontrollable  emotion, 
and  whose  tremulous  tones  thrilled  through  all 
Zillah 's  being,  and  often  and  often  afterward  re- 
curred to  her  memory — "  Miss  Lorton,  this  is 
1  our  last  ride — our  last  interview.     Here  I  will 

^  my  last  farewell.  To-moiTow  I  will  see  yon, 
but  not  alone.  Oh,  my  friend,  my  friend,  my 
j  sweet  friend,  whom  I  held  in  my  arms  once,  as  I 
saved  you  from  death,  we  must  now  part  forever ! 
I  go — I  must  go.  My  God !  where  ?  To  a  life 
of  horror !  to  a  living  death !  to  a  future  without 
one  ray  of  hope !  Once  it  was  dark  enough,  God 
knows ;  but  now — but  now  it  is  intolerable ;  for 
since  I  have  seen  you  I  tremble  at  the  thought  of 
encountering  that  which  awaits  me  in  England !" 

He  held  out  his  hand  as  he  concluded.  Zil- 
lah's  eyes  fell.  His  words  had  been  poured  forth 
with  passionate  fervor.  She  had  nothing  to  say. 
Her  despair  was  as  deep  as  his.  She  held  out 
her  hand  to  meet  his.  It  was  as  cold  as  ice.  He 
seized  it  with  a  convulsive  grasp,  and  his  frame 
trembled  as  he  held  it. 

Suddenly,  as  she  looked  down,  overcome  by 
her  own  agitation,  a  sob  struck  her  ears.  She 
looked  up.  He  seemed  to  be  devouring  her  with 
his  eyes,  as  they  were  fixed  on  her  wildly,  hun- 
grily, yet  despairingly.  And  from  those  eyes, 
which  had  so  often  gazed  steadily  and  proudly 
in  the  face  of  death,  there  now  fell,  drop  by  drop, 
tears  which  seemed  wrung  out  from  his  very 
heart.  It  was  but  for  a  moment.  As  he  caught 
her  eyes  he  dropped  her  hand,  and  hastily  brushed 
his  tears  away.  Zillah's  heart  throbbed  fast  and 
furiously ;  it  seemed  ready  to  burst.  Her  breath 
failed  ;  she  reeled  in  her  saddle.  But  the  par- 
oxysm passed,  and  she  regained  her  self-com- 
mand. 

"Let  us  ride  home,"  said  Windham,  in  a 
stem  voice. 

They  rode  home  without  speaking  another 
word. 

The  next  day  Windham  saw  them  on  board 
the  steamer.  He  stood  on  the  wharf  and  watched 
it  till  it  was  out  of  sight.  Then  he  departed  in 
the  tiaia  for  the  north,  and  for  England. 


CHAPTER  XXXIII. 

THE     agent's     KBPORT. 

On  the  south  coast  of  Hampshire  there  is  a 
little  village  which  looks  toward  the  Isle  of 
Wight.     It  consists  of  a  single  street,  and  in 


TIIK  CRYPTOGUAAI. 


Ill 


front  is  ii  spncions  beach  which  extends  for  miles. 
It  is  a  charming  place  for  those  who  love  seclu- 
sion to  pass  the  summer  months  in,  for  the  view 
is  unsurpassed,  and  the  chances  for  boating  or 
yachting  excellent.  The  village  inn  is  comfort- 
able, and  has  not  yet  been  demoralized  by  the 
influx  of  wealthy  strangers,  while  there  are  nu- 
merous houses  where  visitors  may  secure  quiet 


accommodations   and  a  large  share  of  com- 
fort. 

It  was  about  six  weeks  after  the  disappearance 
of  Hilda,  and  about  a  fortnight  after  Zillah's  de- 
parture in  search  of  her,  that  a  man  drove  into 
this  village  from  Southampton,  up  to  a  house 
which  was  at  the  extreme  eastern  end,  and  in- 
quired for  Miss  Davis.     He  was  asked  to  come 


112 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


in ;  and  after  waiting  for  a  few  minutcM  in  tlio 
snug  i)arlor,  n  lady  entered.  Tlie  slender  and 
elegant  figure,  the  beautiful  features,  and  well- 
bred  air  of  this  lady,  need  not  be  again  described 
to  those  who  have  already  become  ac(iuaintcd 
with  Miss  Krieff.  Nor  need  Gualtier's  personal 
appearance  be  recounted  once  more  to  those  who 
luivo  already  a  sufficient  acquaintance  with  his 
Ijhysiognomy, 

She  shook  hands  with  him  in  silence,  and  then, 
taking  a  chair  and  motioning  him  to  another,  she 
sat  for  some  time  looking  at  him.  At  length  she 
uttered  one  single  word : 

"Well?" 

"It's  done,"  said  Gualtier,  solemnly.  "It's 
all  over."' 

Hilda  caught  her  breath — giving  utterance  to 
what  seemed  something  between  a  sob  and  a 
sigh,  but  she  soon  recovered  herself. 

Gualtier  was  sitting  near  to  her.  He  leaned 
forward  as  Hilda  sat  in  silence,  apparently  over- 
come by  his  intelligence,  and  in  a  low  whisper 
lie  said : 

"Do  you  not  feel  inclined  to  take  a  walk 
somewhere  ?" 

Hilda  said  nothing,  but,  rising,  she  went  up 
stairs,  and  in  a  few  minutes  returned  dressed  for 
a  walk.  The  two  then  set  out,  and  Hilda  led 
the  way  to  the  beach.  Along  the  beach  they 
walked  for  a  long  distance,  until  at  length  they 
came  to  a  place  which  was  remote  from  any  hu- 
man habitation.  Behind  was  the  open  country, 
before  them  the  sea,  whose  surf  came  rolling  in 
in  long,  low  swells,  and  on  either  side  lay  the 
beach.  Here  they  sat  down  on  some  rocks  that 
rose  above  the  sand,  and  for  some  time  said  no- 
thing. Hilda  was  the  first  to  speak.  Before 
saying  any  thing,  however,  she  looked  all  around, 
as  though  to  assure  herself  that  they  were  out  of 
the  reach  of  all  listeners.  Then  she  spoke,  in  a 
slow,  measured  voice : 

"Is  she  gone,  then?" 

"She  is,"  said  Gualtier. 

There  was  another  long  silence.  What  Hil- 
da's feelings  were  could  not  be  told  by  her  face. 
To  outward  appearance  she  was  calm  and  un- 
moved, and  perhaps  she  felt  so  in  her  heart.  It 
was  possible  that  the  thouglit  of  Zillah's  death 
did  not  make  her  heart  beat  faster  by  one  throb, 
or  give  her  one  single  approach  to  a  pang  of  re- 
morse. Her  silence  might  have  been  merely  the 
meditation  of  one  who,  having  completed  one 
part  of  a  plan,  was  busy  thinking  about  the  com- 
pletion of  the  remainder.  And  yet,  on  the  other 
hand,  it  may  have  been  something  more  than 
this.  Zillah  in  life  was  hateful,  but  Zillah  dead 
was  another  thing ;  and  if  she  had  any  softness, 
or  any  capacity  for  remorse,  it  might  well  have 
made  itself  manifest  at  such  a  time.  Gualtier 
sat  looking  at  her  in  silence,  waiting  for  her  to 
speak  again,  attending  on  her  wishes  as  usual ; 
for  this  man,  who  could  be  so  merciless  to  others, 
in  her  presence  resigned  all  his  will  to  hers,  and 
seemed  to  be  only  anxious  to  do  her  pleasure, 
whatever  it  might  be. 

"Tell  me  about  it,"  said  Hilda  at  length,  with- 
out moving,  and  still  keeping  her  eyes  fixed  ab- 
stractedly on  the  sea. 

Gualtier  then  began  with  his  visit  to  Zillah  at 
Tenby.  He  spoke  of  Zillah's  joy  at  getting  the 
letter,  and  her  eager  desire  to  be  once  more  with 
her  friend,  and  so  went  on  till  the  time  of  their 


arrival  at  Marseilles.  He  told  how  Zillah  all  tJio 
way  could  talk  of  nothing  else  than  Hilda ;  of 
lier  feverish  anxiety  to  travel  us  fast  as  possible ; 
of  her  fearful  anticipations  that  Hilda  might 
have  a  relapse,  and  that  after  all  she  might  be 
too  late ;  how  excited  she  grew,  and  how  de- 
s|miring,  when  she  was  told  that  the  steamers 
hadsto])ped  running,  and  how  eagerly  she  accei)t- 
cd  his  ])roposal  to  go  on  in  a  yacht.  The  story 
of  such  atl'ectionate  devotion  might  have  moved 
even  the  hardest  heart,  but  Hilda  gave  no  sign 
of  any  feeling  whatever.  She  sat  motionless — 
listening,  but  saying  nothing.  Whether  Gual- 
tier himself  was  trying  to  test  her  feelings  by 
telling  so  piteous  a  story,  or  whether  some  re- 
morse of  his  own,  and  some  compassion  for  so 
loving  a  heart,  still  lingering  within  him,  forced 
him  to  tell  his  story  in  this  way,  can  not  bo 
known.  Whatever  his  motives  were,  no  effect 
was  produced  on  the  listener,  as  far  as  outward 
signs  were  concerned. 

"With  Mathilde,"  said  he,  "  I  had  some  dif- 
ficulty. She  was  very  unwilling  to  leave  her 
mistress  at  such  a  time  to  make  a  voyage  alone, 
but  she  was  a  timid  creature,  and  I  was  able  to 
work  upon  her  fears.  I  told  her  that  her  mis- 
tress had  committed  a  crime  against  the  English 
laws  in  running  away  and  living  under  an  as- 
sumed name  ;  that  her  husband  was  now  in  En- 
gland, and  would  certainly  pursue  his  wife,  have 
her  arrested,  and  punish  severely  all  who  had 
aided  or  abetted  her.  This  terrified  the  silly 
creature  greatly ;  and  then,  by  the  offer  of  a 
handsome  sum  and  the  promise  of  getting  her  a 
good  situation,  I  soothed  her  fears  and  gained 
her  consent  to  desert  her  mistress.  She  is  now 
in  London,  and  has  already  gained  a  new  situa- 
tion." 

"Where?"  said  Hilda,  abruptly. 

"In  Highgate  Seminary,  the  place  that  I  was 
connected  with  formerly.  She  is  teacher  of 
French,  on  a  good  salary. " 

"  Is  that  safe?"  said  Hilda,  after  some  thought. 

"Why  not?" 

"She  ro  ght  give  trouble." 

"  Oh  no.  Her  situation  is  a  good  one,  and 
she  need  never  leave  it." 

"I  can  scarcely  see  how  she  can  retain  it 
long ;  she  may  be  turned  out,  and  then — we  may 
see  something  of  her. " 

"  You  forget  that  I  am  aware  of  her  movements, 
and  can  easily  put  a  stop  to  any  efforts  of  that  kind. " 

"Still  I  should  bo  better  satisfied  if  she  were 
in  France — or  somewhere." 

"  Should  you  ?  Then  I  can  get  her  a  place  in 
France,  where  you  will  never  hear  of  her  again. " 

Hilda  was  silent. 

"  My  plan  about  the  yacht,"  said  Gualtier, 
"was  made  before  I  left  London.  I  said  no- 
thing to  you  about  it,  for  I  thought  it  plight  not 
succeed.  The  chief  difficulty  was  to  obtain  men 
devoted  to  my  interests.  I  made  a  journey  to 
Marseilles  first,  and  found  out  that  there  were 
several  vessels  of  different  sizes  for  sale.  The 
yacht  was  the  best  and  most  suitable  for  our 
purposes,  and,  fortunately,  it  remained  unsold  till 
I  had  reached  Marseilles  again  with  her.  I  ob- 
tained the  men  in  London.  It  was  with  some 
difficulty,  for  it  was  not  merely  common  ruffians 
that  I  wanted,  but  seamen  who  could  sail  a  ves- 
sel, and  at  the  same  time  be  willing  to  take  part 
in  the  act  which  I  contemplated.     I  told  them 


THE  CRYPTOGUAM. 


118 


was 
of 


and 


laltier, 
id  no- 
;ht  not 
n  men 
ney  to 
were 
Tha 
or  our 
old  till 
lob- 
some 
uffians 
a  ves- 
;e  part 
1  them 


that  all  which  was  required  of  them  was  to  sail 
for  two  day  a  or  so,  and  then  leiivo  the  vessel.  I 
think  they  imagined  it  was  a  ])hin  to  make  mon- 
ey by  insuring  the  vessel  and  then  deserting  her. 
Such  things  are  often  done.  I  had  to  pay  the 
rascals  heavily ;  l>ut  I  was  not  particidar,  and, 
fortunately,  they  all  turned  out  to  be  of  the  right 
sort,  excejit  one — but  no  matter  about  him." 

"  Excejit  one !"  said  Hilda.  "  What  do  you 
mean  by  tliut?" 

"  I  will  ex|)hiin  after  a  while,"  said  Gualtier. 

"  If  she  iuid  not  been  so  innocent,"  said  Gual- 
tier, "1  do  not  see  iiow  my  plan  could  have  suc- 
ceeded. Hut  she  knew  nothing.  She  didn't 
even  know  cnougii  to  make  incpiiries  herself. 
She  accepted  all  that  I  said  with  the  most  im- 
))licit  trust,  and  believed  it  all  as  though  it  were 
Gospel.  It  was,  therefdre,  the  easiest  thing  in 
the  world  to  manage  her.  Her  only  idea  was 
to  get  to  you." 

Gualtier  paused  for  a  moment. 

"Go  on,"  said  Hilda,  coldly. 

"Well,  all  the  preparations  were  made,  and 
the  day  came.  Matliildo  had  left.  She  did  not 
seem  to  feel  thtf  desertion  much.  She  said  no- 
thing at  all  to  nie  about  the  loss  of  her  maid,  al- 
though after  three  or  four  years  of  service  it 
must  have  been  galling  to  her  to  lose  her  maid 
so  abruptly,  and  to  get  such  n  letter  as  that  silly 
thing  wrote  at  my  dictation.  She  came  on  board, 
and  seemed  very  much  satisfied  with  all  the  ar- 
rangements. I  had  done  every  thing  that  I  could 
think  of  to  make  it  pleasant  for  her — on  the  same 
])riuci])le,  I  suppose,"  he  added,  dryly,  "that  they 
have  in  jails — where  they  are  sure  to  give  a  good 
breakfast  to  a  poor  devil  on  the  morning  of  his 
execution." 

"  You  may  as  well  omit  allusions  of  that  sort," 
said  Hilda,  sternly. 

Gualtier  made  no  observation,  but  proceeded 
with  his  narrative. 

"  AVe  sailed  for  two  days,  and,  at  length,  came 
to  within  about  fifty  miles  of  Leghorn.  During 
all  lliat  time  she  had  been  cheerful,  and  was  much 
on  deck.  She  tried  to  read,  but  did  not  .seem  able 
to  do  so.  She  seemed  to  be  involved  in  thought, 
its  a  general  tiling ;  and,  by  the  occasional  ques- 
tions which  she  asked,  I  saw  that  all  her  thoughts 
were  about  you  ami  Naples.  So  passed  the  two 
days,  and  tiie  second  night  came. " 

Gualtier  paused. 

Hilda  sat  motionless,  without  saying  a  word. 
Gualtier  himself  seemed  reluctant  to  go  on  ;  but 
lie  had  to  conclude  his  narrative,  and  so  he  forced 
liiinself  to  proceed. 

"It  was  midnight" — he  went  on,  in  a  very  low 
voice — ' '  it  was  exceedingly  dark.  The  day  had 
been  fine,  but  the  sky  was  now  all  overclouded. 
The  sea,  howevei*,  was  comparatively  smooth, 
and  every  thing  was  favorable  to  the  undertak- 
ing. The  boat  was  all  ready.  It  was  a  good- 
sized  boat,  which  we  had  towed  behind  us.  I 
had  prepared  a  mast  and  a  sail,  and  had  j)ut 
some  ])rovisions  in  the  locker.  The  men  were 
all  expecting — " 

"Never  mind  your  preparations,"  exclaimed 
Hilda,  fiercely.  "Omit  all  that — go  on,  and 
don't  kill  me  with  your  long  preliminaries."- 

"If  yon  had  such  a  story  to  tell,"  said  Gual- 
tier, humbly,  "you  would  be  glad  to  take  refuge 
for  a  little  while  in  preliminaries." 

Hilda  said  nothing. 

H 


"It  was  midnight,"  said  Gualtier,  resuming 
his  story  once  more,  and  speaking  with  percepti- 
ble agitation  in  the  tonei  of  his  voice — "it  was 
midnight,  and  intensely  dark.  The  men  were 
at  the  bow,  waiting.  All  was  ready.  In  the 
cabin  all  had  been  still  for  some  time.  Her 
lights  had  been  put  out  an  hour  previous- 
ly." 

"Well  ?"  said  Hilda,  with  feverish  impatience, 
as  he  again  hesitated. 

"  Well,"  said  Gualtier,  rousing  himself  with  a 
start  from  a  momentary  abstraction  into  which 
he  had  fallen — "the  first  thing  I  did  was  to  go 
down  into  the  hold  with  some  augers,  and  bore 
holes  through  the  vessel's  bottom. " 

Another  silence  followed. 

*^  Some  augers,"  said  Hilda,  after  a  time. 
"Did  you  need  more  than  one?" 

"One  might  break." 

"Did  any  one  go  with  you?"  she  persisted. 

"Yes — one  of  the  men — the  greatest  ruffian 
of  the  lot.  'Black  Bill,'  he  was  called.  I've 
got  something  to  tell  you  about  him.  I  took 
him  down  to  help  me,  for  1  was  afraid  that  I 
might  not  make  a  ^ure  thing  of  it.  Between  us 
we  did  the  job.  The  water  began  to  rush  in 
through  half  a  dozen  holes,  which  we  succeeded 
in  ^aking,  and  we  got  out  on  deck  as  the  yacht 
was  rapidly  filling." 

Again  Gualtier  paused  for  some  time. 

"Why  do  yo'i  hesitate  so?"  asked  Hilda, 
quite  calmly. 

Gualtier  looked  at  her  for  a  moment,  with 
something  like  surprise  in  his  face  ;  but  without 
making  any  reply,  he  went  on : 

"  I  hurried  into  the  cahin  and  listened.  Tliere 
Was  no  sound.  I  put  my  ear  close  to  the  inner 
door.  All  was  utterly  and  perfectly  still.  She 
Wti?  evidently  sleeping.  I  then  hurried  put  and 
I  ordeied  the  men  into  the  boat.  Before  embark- 
ing myself  I  went  back  to  the  hold,  and  reached 
my  hands  down.  I  felt  the  water.  It  was  with- 
in less  than  three  feet  of  the  deck.  It  had  filled 
very  rapidly.  I  then  went  on  board  the  boat, 
unfastened  the  line,  and  we  pulled  away,  steer- 
ing east,  OS  nei..ly  as  possible  toward  Leghorn. 
We  had  rowed  for  about  half  an  hour,  when  I 
recollected  that  I  ought  to  have  locked  the  cabin 
door.  But  it  was  too  late  to  return.  We  could 
never  have  found  the  schooner  if  we  had  tried. 
The  night  was  intensely  dark.  Besides,  by  that 
time  the  schooner — was  at  the  bottom  of  the 
sea .'" 

A  long  silence  followed.  Hilda  looked  stead- 
ily out  on  the  water,  and  Gualtier  watched  her 
with  hungry  eyes.  At  last,  as  though  she  felt 
his  eyes  upon  her,  she  turn»d  and  looked  ot  him. 
A  great  change  had  come  over  her  face.  It 
was  fixed  and  rigid  and  haggard — her  eyes  had 
something  in  them  that  was  awful.  Her  lips 
were  white — her  face  was  ashen.  She  tried  to 
speak,  but  at  first  no  sound  escaped.  At  last 
she  spoke  in  a  hoarse  voice  utterly  unlike  her 
own. 

"She  is  gone,  then." 

"  For  evermore .'"  said  Gualtier. 

Hilda  turned  her  stony  face  once  more  toward 
the  sea,  while  Gualtier  looked  all  around,  and 
then  turned  his  gaze  back  to  this  woman  for 
whom  he  had  done  so  much. 

"After  a  while" — he  began  once  more,  in  a 
slow,  dull  voice — "the  wind  came  up,  and  we 


lU 


THE  CRYPTOORAM. 


'ULAOK  liILL   HAS   KUIT  ON    MY   TRACK. 


hoisted  sail.  Wo  went  on  our  way  rapidly,  and 
by  the  middle  of  the  following  day  we  arrived  at 
Leghorn.  I  paid  the  men  off  and  dismissed 
them.  I  myself  came  back  to  London  immedi- 
ately, over  the  Alps,  through  Germany.  I  thought 
it  best  to  avoid  Marseilles.  I  do  not  know  what 
the  men  did  with  themselves ;  but  I  think  that 
they  would  have  made  some  trouble  for  me  if  1 
had  not  hirried  away.  Black  Bill  said  as  much 
when  I  wits  paying  them.  He  said  that  when 
he  made  the  bargain  he  thought  it  was  only  some 
'bloody  insurance  business,'  and,  if  he  had 
known  what  it  was  to  have  been,  he  would  have 
made  a  different  bargain.  As  it  was,  he  swore 
I  ought  to  double  the  amount  I  had  promised. 
I  refused,  and  we  parted  with  some  high  words — 
he  vowing  vengeance,  and  I  saying  nothing. " 

"  Ah !"'  said  Hilda,  who  had  succeeded  in  re- 
covering something  of  her  ordinary  calm,  "  that 
was  foolish  in  you — you  ought  to  have  satisfied 
their  demands.". 

"  I  have  thought  so  bince." 

"  They  may  create  trouble.  You  should  have 
stopped  their  mouths." 

"That  is  the  very  thing  I  wished  to  do;  but 
I  was  afraid  of  being  too  lavish,  for  fear  that 
they  would  suspect  the  importance  of  the  thing. 


I  thought  if  I  appeared  moan  and  stingy  and 
poor  they  might  conclude  tiiut  I  was  Homo  very 
ordinary  person,  and  that  the  affair  was  of  ii 
very  ordinary  kind — concerning  very  common 
people.  If  they  HuspecCod  tlio  true  nature  of 
the  case  they  would  be  sure  to  inform  the  police. 
As  it  is,  they  will  hold  their  tongues ;  or,  at  the 
worst,  they  will  try  and  triii'k  nic." 

"  Track  you  ?"  said  Hilda,  who  was  struck  by 
something  in  (iualtiur's  tone. 

"  Yes;  the  fact  is — I  sui)posc  I  ought  to  tell 
you — I  have  been  tracked  all  the  way  from  Leg- 
hoi-n." 

"By  whom?" 

"  Ulack  Bill — I  don't  know  how  ho  managed 
it,  hut  he  has  certainly  kent  on  my  track.  I  saw 
him  at  Brieg,  in  Switzerland,  first ;  next  I  saw 
him  in  the  railway  station  at  Straslmurg;  and  yes- 
terday  I  saw  him  in  London,  standing  opposite 
the  door  of  my  lodgings,  as  I  was  leaving  for 
this  place," 

"That  looks  bad,"  said  Hilda,  seriously. 

"  He  is  determined  to  find  out  what  this  busi- 
ness is,  and  so  he  watches  me.  He  doesn't 
threaten,  he  doesn't  demand  money — he  is  sim- 
ply watching.     His  game  is  a  deep  one." 

"Do  you  suppose  that  the  others  are  with 
him?" 

"  Not  at  all.  I  think  he  is  trying  to  work  this 
up  for  himself." 

"  It  is  bad,"  said  Hilda.  "  IIow  do  you  know 
that  he  is  not  in  this  village?" 

"As  to  that,  it  is  quite  impossible  —  and  I 
never  expect  to  see  him  again,  in  fact." 

"Why  not?" 

"Because  I  have  thrown  him  off  the  track 
completely.  While  I  was  going  straight  to  Lon- 
don it  was  easy  for  him  to  follow — especially  as 
I  did  not  care  to  dodge  him  on  the  continent; 
but  now,  if  he  ever  catches  sight  of  mo  again  he 
is  much  deei)er  than  I  take  him  to  be." 

"But  ])erhaps  he  has  ."./llowed  you  here." 

"  That  is  impossible,"  said  Gualtier,  confident- 
ly. "  My  mode  of  getting  away  from  London  was 
peculiar.  As  soon  as  I  saw  him  opposite  my  lodg- 
ings my  mind  was  made  up ;  so  I  took  the  train 
for  Bristol,  and  went  about  forty  miles,  when  I 
got  out  and  came  back ;  then  I  drove  to  the  Great 
Northern  Station  immediately,  went  north  about 
twenty  miles,  and  came  back ;  after  this  I  took 
the  Southampton  train,  and  came  down  last  night. 
It  would  be  rather  difficult  for  one  man  to  follow 
another  on  such  a  journey.  As  to  my  lodgings, 
I  do  not  intend  to  go  back.  He  will  probably 
inquire,  and  find  that  I  have  left  all  my  things 
there,  and  I  dare  say  he  will  watch  that  place  for 
the  next  six  months  at  least,  waiting  for  my  re- 
turn. And  so  I  think  he  may  be  considered  as 
finally  disposed  of. " 

"You  do  not  intend  to  send  for  your  things, 
then  ?" 

"  No.  There  are  articles  there  of  considerable 
value ;  but  I  will  let  them  all  go— it  will  be  taken 
as  a  proof  that  I  am  dead.  My  friend  Black  Bill 
will  hear  of  this,  and  fall  in  with  that  opinion.  I 
may  also  arrange  a  'distressing  casualty'  para- 
graph to  insert  in  the  papers  for  his  benefit." 

Hilda  now  relapsed  into  silence  once  more, 
and  seemed  to  lose  herself  in  a  fit  of  abstraction 
80  profound  that  she  was  conscious  of  nothing 
around  her.  Gualtier  sat  regarding  her  silently, 
and  wondering  whither  her  thoughts  were  tend- 


THE  CKYl'TOGRAM. 


ua 


ing.  A  long  time  pnssod.  The  Burf  wns  rolling 
on  (i)e  hIioi'C,  tiic  wind  wiih  blowing  lightly  and 
gently  over  the  8ca;  nt'itr  the  blue  water  was 
dotted  with  inniimernhle  Hails;  there  were  ships 
passing  in  all  directions,  and  steamers  of  all 
Hizes  leaving  hehind  them  great  trails  of  smoke. 

Over  two  honrs  had  |)assed  since  they  tirst  sat 
down  hero,  and  now,  at  length,  the  tide,  which 
had  all  the  wiiilu  lieen  rising,  began  to  approach 
them,  until  at  last  the  first  advance  waves  came 
wiiliin  a  few  inches  of  Hilda's  feet.  She  did  not 
notice  it ;  but  this  occurrence  gave  (jualtier  a 
chance  to  interrupt  her  meditations. 

"The  tide  is  rising,"  said  lie,  ubrujjtly ;  "the 
next  wave  will  bo  up  to  us.    Wc  had  better  move. " 

It  was  with  a  start  that  Hilda  roused  herself. 
Then  she  rose  slowly,  and  walked  up  the  beach 
with  (iualtior. 

"  I  should  like  very  much  to  know,"  said  he, 
nt  length,  in  an  insinuating  voice,  ''if  there  is 
any  thing  more  that  I  can  do  just  now." 

"I  have  been  thinking,"  said  Hilda,  without 
hesitation,  "of  my  next  course  of  actiim,  and  I 
have  decided  to  go  back  to  Chetwynde  at  once." 

"ToChetwynde!" 

"Yes,  and  to-morrow  morning." 

"To-morrow!" 

"There  is  no  cause  for  delay,"  said  Hilda. 
"The  time  has  at  last  come  when  I  can  act." 

"To Chetwynde! "repeated  Gualtier.  "lean 
scarcely  understand  your  purpose. " 

"  I'erhaps  not,"  said  Hilda,  dryly  ;  "it  is  one 
that  need  not  be  ex})lained,  for  it  will  not  fail  to 
reveal  itself  in  the  course  of  time  under  any  cir- 
cumstances." 

"But  you  have  some  ostensible  purpose  for 
going  there.  You  can  not  go  there  merely  to 
take  up  yonr  abode  on  the  old  footing." 

"  I  do  not  intend  to  do  that,"  was  the  cool  re- 
sponse. "  You  may  be  sure  that  I  have  a  pur- 
pose. I  ahi  going  to  make  certain  very  neces- 
sary arrangements  for  the  advent  of  Lady  Chet- 
wynde." 

"  Lady  Chetwynde!"  repeated  Gualtier,  with 
a  kind  of  gasp. 

"Yes,"  said  Hilda,  who  by  this  time  had  re- 
covei-ed  all  her  usual  self-control,  and  exhibited 
all  her  old  force  of  character,  her  daring,  and 
her  coolness,  which  had  long  ago  given  her  such 
an  ascendency  ovi  Gualtier.  "Yes,"  she  re- 
peated, quietly  reu  ning  the  other's  look  of 
amazement,  "and  why  should  I  not?  Lady 
Chetwynde  has  been  absent  for  her  health.  Is 
it  not  natural  that  .she  should  send  me  to  make 
preparations  for  her  return  to  her  own  home? 
She  prefers  it  to  Pomeroy. " 

"Good  God!"  said  Gualtier,  quite  forgetting 
himself,  as  a  thought  struck  him  which  filled 
him  with  bewilderment.  Could  he  fathom  her 
purpose  ?  Was  the  idea  that  occurred  to  him  in 
very  deed  the  one  whii  h  was  in  her  mind  ?  Could 
it  be  ?    And  was  it  for  this  that  he  had  labored  ? 

"  Is  Lord  Chetwynde  coming  home  ?"  he  ask- 
ed at  length,  as  Hilda  looked  at  him  with  a 
strange  expression. 

"Lord  Chetwynde?  I  should  say,  most  cer- 
tainly not. " 

"  Do  you  know  for  certain  ?"  •  ' 

"  No.  I  have  narrowly  watched  the  papers, 
but  have  found  out  nothing,  nor  have  any  letters 
come  which  could  tell  me;  but  I  have  reasons 
for  supposing  that  the  very  last  thing  that  Lord 


Chetwynde  would  think  of  doing  would  be  to 
come  home." 

"Why  do  you  suppose  that?  Is  there  not  his 
rank,  his  |>osition,  and  his  wealth  ?" 

"Ves;  but  the  correspondence  l)etwoen  him 
and  Lady  ( 'hetwynde  has  for  years  been  of  so 
very  peculiar  a  character — that  is,  at  least,  on 
Lady  (;hetwynde's  part — that  the  very  fact  of  her 
being  in  England  would,  to  a  man  of  his  charac- 
ter, l)e  sntHcient,  I  should  think,  to  keep  him 
away  forever.  And  therefore  I  think  that  Lord 
(Chetwynde  will  endure  his  grief  about  his  farlier, 
and  perhaps  overcome  it,  in  the  Indian  residency 
to  which  ho  was  lately  api)oiuted.  I'erhaps  he 
may  end  his  days  there — who  can  tell?  If  he 
should,  it  would  be  too  much  to  expect  that  Lady 
Chetwynde  would  take  it  very  much  to  heart. " 

"  Hut  it  seems  to  me,  in  spite  of  all  that  you 
have  said,  that  nine  men  ont  of  ten  would  come 
home.  They  could  bo  much  happier  in  England, 
and  the  things  of  which  you  have  spoken  would 
not  necessarily  give  trouble." 

"That  is  very  true;  but,  at  the  same  time. 
Lord  Chetwynde,  in  my  opinion,  hai)pens  to  be 
that  tenth  man  who  would  ngt  come  home ;  for, 
if  he  di<l,  it  would  be  Lady  Clietwynde's  money 
that  he  would  enjoy,  and  to  a  man  of  his  nature 
this  would  be  intolerable — especially  as  she  has 
been  diligently  taunting  him  with  the  fact  that 
he  has  cheated  her  for  the  last  five  years. '' 

Gualtier  heard  this  with  fresh  surprise. 

"I  did  not  know  before  that  there  had  been 
so  very  peculiar  a  correspondence,"  said  he. 

"  I  think  that  it  will  decide  him  to  stay  in  In- 
dia." 

"Hut  suppose,  in  spite  of  all  this,  that  he 
should  come  home. " 

"That  is  a  fact  which  should  never  be  lost 
sight  of,"  said  Hilda,  very  gravely — "nor  is  it 
ever  lost  sight  of;  one  must  be  prepared  to  en- 
counter such  a  thing  as  that. " 

"But  how?" 

"Oh,  there  are  various  woys,"  said  Hilda. 

"  He  can  be  avoided,  shunned,  fled  from,"  said 
Gualtier,  "but  how  can  he  be  encountered?" 

"If  he  does  come,"  said  Hilda,  "he  will  be 
neither  avoided  nor  shunned.  He  will  be  most 
assuredly  encountered  —  and  that,  too,  face  to 
face!" 

Gualtier  looked  at  her  in  fresh  perplexity. 
Not  yet  had  he  fathomed  the  full  depth  of  Hil- 
da's deep  design. 


CHAPTER  XXXIV. 

remodeli.no  the  household. 

Two  or  three  days  aftenvard,  Hilda,  attended 
by  Gualtier,  drove  up  to  the  inn  of  the  little  vil- 
lage near  Chetwynde  Castle.  Gualtier  stopped 
here,  and  Hilda  drove  on  to  the  Castle  itself. 
Her  luggage  was  with  her,  but  it  was  small,  con- 
sisting of  only  a  small  trunk,  which  looked  as 
though  it  were  her  intention  to  make  but  a  short 
stay.  On  her  arrival  the  servants  all  greeted  her 
respectfully,  and  asked  eagerly  after  Iiady  Chet- 
wynde. Her  ladyship,  Hildci  informed  them, 
was  still  too  unwell  to  travel,  but  was  much  bet- 
ter than  when  she  left.  She  had  sent  her  to 
make  certain  arrangements  for  the  reception  of 
Lord  Chetwynde,  who  was  expected  from  India 


116 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


at  no  very  distant  date.  She  did  not  as  yet 
know  the  time  of  his  probable  arrival ;  but  wlien 
she  had  learned  it  she  herself  would  come  to 
Chetwynde  Castle  to  receive  hiin ;  but  until  that 
time  she  would  stay  away.  The  place  where 
she  was  staying  just  at  present  was  particulai-ly 
healthy.  It  was  a  small  village  on  the  coast  of 
Brittany,  and  Lady  Chetwynde  was  anxious  to 
defer  her  return  to  the  late.si  jiossihle  moment. 
Such  was  the  information  which  Hilda  conde- 
scended to  give  to  the  servants,  who  received  the 
news  with  unfeigned  delight,  for  they  all  dearly 
loved  that  gentle  girl,  whose  presence  at  Ciiet- 
wynde  had  formerly  brightened  the  whole  house, 
and  with  whose  deep  grief  over  her  last  bereave- 
ment they  had  all  most  sincerely  sympathized. 

Hilda  had  many  things  to  do.  Her  first  duty 
was  to  call  on  Mrs.  Hart.  The  poor  old  house- 
keeper still  continued  in  a  miserable  condition, 
hovering,  apparently,  between  life  and  death,  and 
only  conscious  at  intervals  of  what  was  going  on 
around  her.  That  consciousness  was  not  stronj^ 
enough  to  make  her  miss  the  presence  of  Zillah, 
nor  did  her  faculties,  even  in  her  most  lucid  in- 
tervals, seem  to  be  fully  at  work.  Her  memory 
did  not  ap|)ear  to  suggest  at  any  time  those  sad 
events  wl  'ch  had  brought  her  down  to  this.  It 
was  only  at  times  that  she  exhil)itcd  any  recol- 
lection of  the  past,  and  that  was  confined  alto- 
gether to  "Guy;"  to  him  whom  in  whispered 
words  she  called  "  her  boy."  Mrs.  Hart  was  not 
at  all  neglected.  Susan,  who  had  once  been  the 
upper  house-maid,  had  of  late  filled  the  place  of 
houseLeeper,  which  she  could  easily  do,  as  the 
family  was  away,  and  the  duties  were  light.  vShe 
also,  with  her  sister  Mary,  who  was  the  under 
house -maid,  was  assiduous  in  watcliing  at  the 
bedside  of  the  poor  old  creature,  who  lay  there 
hovering  between  life  and  death.  Nothing,  in- 
deed, could  exceed  thi  kindness  and  tenderness 
of  these  two  humble  bu ,;  noble-hearted  girls ;  and 
even  if  Zillah  herself  ronid  have  been  brought  to 
that  bedside  the  }>oor  suflTerer  could  not  have  met 
with  more  compassionate  affection,  and  certainly 
could  not  have  found  such  careful  nursing. 

Hilda  visited  Mrs.  Hart,  and  exhibited  such 
tenderness  of  feeling  that  both  Snsan  and  Mary 
were  touched  by  it.  They. knew  that  Mrs.  Hart 
had  never  loved  her,  but  it  seemed  now  as  if 
Hilda  had  forgotten  all  that  former  coldness, 
and  was  herself  inspired  by  nothing  but  the  ten- 
derest  concern.  But  Hilda  had  much  to  attend 
to.  and  after  about  half  an  hour  she  'eft  the  room 
to  look  nf'ter  those  more  important  matters  for 
which  she  had  come. 

What  her  errand  was  the  servants  soon  found 
out.  It  was  nothing  less  than  a  complete  change 
in  the  household.  That  household  had  never 
been  large,  for  the  late  Earl  had  been  forced  by 
his  circumstances  to  be  economical.  He  never 
entertained  company,  and  was  satisfied  with  keep- 
ing the  place,  inside  and  outside,  in  an  ordinary 
state  of  neatness. 

The  servants  who  now  remained  may  easily  be 
mentioned.  Mathilde  had  gone  away.  Mrs. 
Hart  lay  on  a  sick-bed.  There  was  Susan,  the 
upper  house-maid,  and  Mary,  her  sister,  the  un- 
der house-maid.  There  was  Itoberts,  who  had 
been  the  late  Earl's  valet,  a  smart,  active  young 
man,  who  was  well  known  to  have  a  weakness 
for  Susan ;  there  was  the  cook.  Martha,  a  formi- 
dable personage,  who  considered  herself  the  most 


important  member  of  that  household ;  and  be- 
sides these  there  were  the  coachman  and  the 
groom.  These  composed  the  entire  establish- 
ment. It  was  for  the  sake  of  getting  rid  of  these, 
in  as  quiet  and  inott'ensive  a  way  as  pos.sible,  that 
Hilda  had  now  come;  and  toward  evening  she 
began  her  work  by  sending  for  Roberts. 

"Roberts,  "said  she,  with  dignity,  as  that  very 
respectable  person  made  his  ajjpearance,  carry- 
ing in  his  face  the  consciousness  of  one  who  had 
possessed  the  late  Earl's  confidence,  "I  am  in- 
trusted with  a  commission  from  her  ladyshi))  to 
you.  I,ord  Chetwynde  is  coming  home,  and 
great  changes  are  going  to  be  made  here.  IJut 
iicr  ladyship  can  not  forget  the  old  household ; 
and  she  told  me  to  mention  to  you  how  grateful 
she  felt  to  you  for  all  your  unwearied  care  and 
assiduity  in  your  attendance  upon  your  late  mas- 
ter, especially  through  his  long  and  painful  ill- 
ness ;  and  she  is  most  anxious  to  know  in  what 
way  she  can  be  of  service  to  you.  Her  ladyvhip 
has  heard  Mathilde  speak  of  an  understanding 
which  exists  between  you  and  Susan,  the  upper 
house-maid ;  and  she  is  in  hopes  that  she  may 
be  able  to  fiu'ther  your  views  in  the  way  of  set- 
tling yourself;  and  so  she  wished  me  to  find  out 
whether  you  had  formed  any  plans,  and  what 
they  were. " 

"  It's  like  her  ladyship's  thoughtfulness  and  con- 
sideration, "said  Roberts,  gratefully,  "to  think  of 
the  likes  of  me.  I'm  sure  I  did  nothing  for  my 
lord  beyond  what  it  were  my  bouTiden  dooty  to  do ; 
and  a  pleasanter  and  aft'abler  spoken  gentleman 
than  his  lordship  were  nobody  need  ever  want  to 
see.  I  never  expect  to  meet  with  such  another. 
As  to  Susan  and  me,"  continued  Rolierts,  look- 
ing sheepish,  "we  was  a-thinkin'.of  a  public,  when 
so  be  a?  we  conld  see  our  way  to  it." 

"Where  were  you  thinking  of  taking  one?" 

"Well,  miss,  you  see  I'm  a  Westmorelandshire 
man  ;  and  somehow  I've  a  hankerin'  after  the  old 
place. " 

"  And  you're  quite  right,  Roberts,"  said  Hilda, 
in  an  encouraging  tone.  "A  man  is  always 
happier  in  his  native  place  among  his  own  peo- 
ple.    Have  you  heard  of  an  opening  there?" 

Roberts,  at  this,  looked  more  sheepish  still, 
and  did  not  answer  until  Hilda  had  repeated  her 
question. 

"Well,  to  be  plain  with  you,  miss,"  said  he, 
"  I  had  a  letter  this  very  week  from  my  brother, 
telling  me  of  a  public  in  Keswick  as  was  for  sale 
— good-will,  stock,  and  all,  and  a  capital  situa- 
tion for  business — towerists  the  whole  summer 
through,  and  a  little  somethin'  a-doin'  in  winter. 
Susan  p,nd  me  was  a-regrettin'  the  limitation  of 
our  means,  miss." 

"  That  seems  a  capital  opening,  Robert**, "  said 
Hilda,  very  graciously.  "  It  would  be  a  pity  to 
lose  it.     What  is  the  price  ?" 

"  Woll,  miss,  it's  a  pretty  penny,  but  it's  the 
stand  makes  it,  mis.s — right  on  the  shores  of  the 
lake — boats  to  let  at  all  hours,  inquire  within. 
They  are  a-askin'  five  hundred  pound,  miss." 

"  Is  that  unreasonable?" 

"  Situation  considered,  on  the  contrary,  miss ; 
and  Susan  and  me  has  two  hundred  pound  be- 
tween US  in  the  savings-bank.  My  lord  was  a 
generous  master.  Now  if  her  ladyship  would 
lend  me  the  extry  money  I'd  pay  her  back  as 
fast  as  I  made  it.' 

"There  is  no  necessity  for  thai,"  said  Hilda. 


•<T-.'  '  '•j^nfrnp^nvfoffsif^  .'  '» '!inw*'-'"'-"T^'"*(^>'^"'ii'Ti!*'"  WW!5lf'^"V 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


117 


"Three  hundred  pounds  happens  to  be  the  very 
sum  which  her  hidyship  mentioned  to  me.  So  now 
I  commission  you  in  her  name  to  make  all  the  nec- 
essaiy  arrangements  with  your  brother;  or,  better 
still,  go  at  once  yourself — a  man  can  always  ar- 
range these  matters  more  satisfactorily  himself — 
and  I  will  let  you  have  the  money  in  three  days, 
with  Lady  Chetwynde's  best  wishes  for  the  success 
of  your  undertaking;  and  we  will  see,"  she  added, 
with  a  smile,  "if  we  can  not  get  pretty  Susan  a 
wedding-dress,  and  any  thing  else  she  ma/  need. 
Uefore  a  week  is  over  you  shall  be  h.ine  liost  of 
the  Keswick  Inn.  And  now,"  she  concluded, 
gayly,  "go  and  make  your  arrangements  with 
Susan,  and  don't  let  any  foolish  bashfidness  on 
her  part  prevent  you  from  hastening  matters.  It 
would  not  do  for  you  fo  let  thischance  slip  through 
your  fingers.  I  will  see  that  she  is  ready.  Her 
ladysliip  has  something  for  her  too,  and  will  not 
let  her  go  to  you  empty-handed. " 

"  I  never,  never  can  thank  her  ladyship  nor 
you  enough,"  said  Roberts,  "  for  what  you  have 
done  for  me  this  day.  Might  I  make  so  bold  as 
to  write  a  letter  to  her  ladyship,  to  offer  her  my 
respectful  dooty  ?" 

"Yes,  Roberts — do  so,  and  give  me  the  letter. 
I  shall  be  writing  to-night,  and  will  inclose  it. 
3y-the-b),  are  not  Mary  and  Susan  sisters?" 

"They  be,  miss — sisters  and  orphelins." 

"Well,  then,"  said  she,  "  see  that  you  do  not 
take  more  than  you  are  entitled  to ;  for  though 
her  ladysMp  lets  you  carry  Susan  off,  you  must 
not  cast  covetous  eyes  on  Mary  too ;  for  though 
I  allow  shvi  would  make  a  very  pretty  little  bar- 
maid, she  is  a  particularly  good  house-maid,  and 
we  can't  spare  her." 

Roberts  grinned  from  ear  to  ear. 

"  I  can't  pretend  to  manage  the  women,  miss," 
said  he ;  "you  must  speak  to  Mary ;"  and  then, 
with  a  low  l)ow,  Koherts  withdrew. 

Hilda  gave  a  sigh  of  relief.  "  There  are  three 
disposed  of,"  she  murmured.  "This  is  a  fair 
beginning." 

On  the  following  day  she  gave  Roberts  a  check 
for  the  money,  drawn  by  Zillah  Chetwynde.  Wav- 
ing off  his  thanks,  she  dismissed  him,  and  sent 
for  the  cook.  That  functionary  (juickly  appeared. 
She  wos  short  of  stature,*  large  of  bulk,  red  of 
face,  fluent  of  speech,  hasty  of  terai)er — au  reste, 
she  was  a  good  cook  and  faithful  servant.  She 
bobbed  to  Hilda  on  entering,  and,  closing  the  door, 
stood  with  folded  arms  and  belli;  ;erent  aspect,  like 
a  i)orcupiuo  armed  for  defense  on  the  slightest 
appearance  of  hostilities. 

"Good-morning,  Martha,"  said  Hilda,  with 
great  suavity.  "I  hope  your  riieumatism  has 
not  been  troubling  ycu  since  the  »varm  weather 
set  in  ?'' 

Martha  bobbed  with  a  more  mollified  air. 

"Which,  exceptin'  the  elber  jints,  where  it's 
settled,  likewise  the  knee  jints — savin'  of  your 
l-resence,  miss — it's  the  sauje  ;  for  to  go  down  on 
my  bended  knees,  miss,  it's  what  I  couldn't  do, 
not  if  you  was  to  give  me  a  thousand-pun  note 
in  my  l)lessed  hand,  and  my  Easter  dooty  not 
bein'  able  to  perform,  miss,  which  it  be  the  first 
time  it  ever  wor  the  case ;  an'  it  owing  to  the 
rhenmatiz ;  otherwise  I  am  better,  miss,  and  j 
thank  you  kindly." 

"Her  ladyship  is  very  sorry,"  continued  Flil- ' 
da.  "She  is  unable  to  return  herself  just  yet,  \ 
but  she  has  asked  me  to  attend  to  several  mat-  i 


ters  for  her,  and  one  of  them  is  connected  with 
you,  Martha.  She  has  received  a  letter  from  his 
lordship  stating  that  he  was  bringing  with  him  a 
staff  of  servants,  and  among  them  a  French 
cook." 

Here  Martha  assumed  the  jiorcupinc  again, 
with  every  quill  on  end ;  but  she  said  nothing, 
though  Hilda  paused  for  an  instant.  Martha 
wished  to  commit  Miss  Krietf  to  a  proposition, 
that  she  might  have  the  glory  of  rejecting  it  with 
scorn.     So  Hilda  went  on  : 

"  Your  mistress  was  afraid  that  you  might  not 
care  about  taking  the  place  of  under-cook  where 
you  have  been  head,  and  as  she  was  anxious  to 
avoid  hurting  your  feelings  in  any  way,  she  wished 
me  to  tell  you  of  this  beforehand." 

Another  moment  n"d  the  apoplexy  which  had 
been  threatening  sii  .  the  moment  when  "un- 
der-cook" had  been  mentioned  would  have  been 
a  fact,  but  luckily  for  Martha  her  overcharged 
feelings  here  broke  forth  with  accents  of  bitter- 
est scorn : 

"AVhich  she's  very  kind.  Ilunder-cook,  in- 
deed !  which  it's  what  I  never  abore  yet,  and 
never  will  abear.  I've  lived  at  t)het\vyn  this 
twenty  year,  gurl  and  woman,  and  hopes  as  I  'ave 
done  my  dooty  and  giv  satisfaction,  which  my 
lord  were  a  gentleman^  an'  found  no  fault  with  his 
wittles,  but  ate  them  like  a  Christian  and  a  no- 
bleman, a-thankin'  the  Lord,  and  a-sayin',  'I 
never  asks  to  see  a  tidier  or  a  'olesomer  din- 
ner than  Martha  sends,  which  she's  to  be  depeiul- 
ed  on  as  never  bein'  raw  nor  ^et  done  to  rags;' 
an'  now  when,  as  you  may  say,  gettin'  on  in 
years,  though  not  that  old  neither  as  Xo  be  de- 
pendent or  wantin'  in  sperrit,  to  have  a  French 
'cook  set  over  me  a  talkin'  furrin  languidgis  and 
a  cookin'  up  goodness  ony  knows  what  messes  as 
'ud  pison  a  Christian  stomach  to  as  much  as 
look  at,  and  a  horderin'  about  Marthar  here  and 
Marthar  there,  it's  what  I  can't  consent  to  juit 
up  with,  and  nobody  as  •  asn't  a  mean  spereted 
creetur  could  expect  it  of  me,  which  it's  not  as  I 
wish  to  speak  disrespectful  of  her  ladyship,  which 
I  considers  a  lady  and  as  allers  treated  me  as  sich, 
only  expectin'  to  hetid  my  days  in  Chetwyn  it's 
come  siulden  like ;  but  thanks  to  the  blessed 
saints,  which  I  'ave  put  by  as  will  keep  me  from 
the  wukkus  and  a  charge  on  nobody;  and  I'd 
like  to  give  warnin',  if  you  please,  miss,  and  if 
so  1)0  as  I  could  lea>o  befoi-e  monseer  arrive." 

Here  Martha  paused,  not  from  lack  of  mate- 
rial, but  from  sheer  want  of  breath.  She  woul'' 
have  been  invincilile  in  conversation  but  for  that 
fatal  constitutional  infirmity — shortness  of  breath. 
This  brought  her  to  a  pause  in  the  full  flow  of  her 
eloquence. 

Hilda  took  advantage  of  the  lidl. 

"Your  mistress,"  said  she,  "feared  that  you 
would  feel  as  you  do  on  the  subject,  and  her  in- 
structions to  me  were  these :  '  Try  and  keep 
Martha  if  you  possibly  can — we  shall  not  easily 
replace  her;  but  if  she  seems  to  fear  that  this 
new  French  cook  may  be  domineering'  "  (fresh 
and  fiii-irming  symptoms  of  apoplexy),  "  '  and  may 
make  it  uncomfortable  for  her,  we  must  think  of 
her  instead  of  ourselves.  She  has  been  too  faith- 
ful a  servant  to  allow  her  to  be  trampled  upon 
now ;  aiid  if  you  find  that  she  will  not  really  con- 
sent to  stop,  you  must  get  her  a  good  place — ' " 

"Which,  if  you  please,  mum,"  said  Martha, 
interrupting  her  excitedly,  "  we  won't  talk  about 


118 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


m 

HI 


1 

il; 


a  place — it  is  utter-ly  useless,  and  I  might  be  for- 
gettin'  myself;  but  I  never  tiiought,"  she  con- 
tinued, brushing  away  a  hasty  tear,  "  as  it  was 
Mastei  <jruy,  meaning  my  lord,  as  would  send 
old  Martha  away. " 

"  Oh,  I  am  sure  he  did  not  mean  to  do  that," 
said  Hilda,  kindly ;  "  but  gentlemen  have  not 
much  consideration,  you  know,  and  he  is  accus- 
tomed to  French  cookery."  The  softer  mood 
vanished  at  the  hated  name. 

"And  he'll  never  grow  to  be  the  man  his  fa- 
.  ther  were,"  said  she,  excitedly,  "on  them  furrin 
gimcracks  and  kickshaws  as  wouldn't  nourish  a 
babby,  let  alone  a  full-growed  man,  and  'e  a  Hen- 
glishman.  But  it's  furrin  parts  as  does  it.  I 
never  approved  of  the  barmy. " 

"  Her  ladyship  told  me,"  said  Plilda,  with  her 
usual  placidity,  and  without  taking  any  notice  of 
the  excited  feeling  of  the  other,  "that  if  you  in- 
sisted on  going  1  was  to  give  you  twenty  pounds, 
with  her  kind  regards,  to  buy  some  remembrance. " 

"Which  shi's  very  kind,"  rejoined  Martha, 
rather  quickly,  and  with  some  degree  of  asper- 
ity;  "and  if  you'll  give  her  my  grateful  dooty, 
I'd  like  to  leave  at'  soon  as  may  be." 

"Well,  if  you  are  anxious  to  do  so,  I  suppose 
you  can.     What  kitchen-maids  are  there  ?" 

"Well,  miss,"  said  Martha,  v;ith  dignity,  yet 
severity,  "sich  drabs  of  girls  as  I  'ave  'ad  would 
'ave  prevoked  a  saint,  and  mayhap  1  was  a  little 
hasty ;  but  takin'  up  a  sauce-pan,  and  findin'  it 
that  dirty  as  were  scandlus  to  be'old,  I  throwed 
the  water  as  were  hin  it  over  'er,  and  the  sauce- 
pan with  it,  an'  she  declared  she'd  go,  which  as 
the  'ousekeeper  bein'  in  bed,  as  you  know,  miss, 
an'  there  likely  to  remain  for  hevermore,  slie  did, 
an'  good  riddance  to  her,  say  I — ungratefid  hus- 
sy as  had  jist  got  her  wages  the  day  before,  and 
'ad  a  comfortable  'ome. " 

"  It  does  not  matter.  I  suppose  the  French 
cook  will  bring  his  own  subordinates. " 

"  Wery  like,  miss,"  said  Martha,  sharply.  "  I 
leave  this  very  day.     Good-mornin',  miss." 

"  Oh  no ;  don't  be  in  such  a  huriy,"  said  Hil- 
da. ' '  You  have  a  week  before  you.  Let  me 
see  you  before  evening,  so  that  I  may  give  you 
what  your  mistress  has  sent." 

Martha  sullenly  assented,  and  withdrew. 

The  most  difficult  part  of  Hilda's  business  had 
thus  been  quietly  accomplished.  Nothing  now 
remained'  but  to  see  the  coachman  and  groom, 
each  of  whom  she  graciously  dismissed  with  a 
handsome  present.  She  told  tliem,  however,  to 
remain  for  about  a  week,  until  their  successors 
might  arrive.  The  large  present  which  the  liber- 
ality of  Lady  Chetwynde  had  given  them  enabled 
them  to  bear  their  lot  with  patience,  and  even 
pleasure. 

After  about  a  week  Gualtier  came  up  to 
Chetwynde  Castle,  lie  had  been  away  to  Lon- 
don, and  brought  word  to  Hilda  that  some  of 
the  new  servants  were  expected  in  a  few  days. 
It  was  soon  known  to  Roberts,  Susan,  and  Mary 
that  Gualtier  had  been  made  steward  by  Lady 
Chetwynde.  He  took  possession  of  one  of  the 
rooms,  and  at  once  entered  u])on  the  duties  of 
this  office.  On  the  day  of  his  arrival  Hilda  left, 
saymg  to  the  remaining  servants  that  she  would 
never  come  Imck  again,  as  she  intended  to  live  in 
th  i  south  of  Fiance.  She  shook  hands  with  each 
'if  them  very  graciously,  making  each  one  ii  pres- 
viiit  ill  lier  own  name,  and  accompanying  it  with 


a  neat  little  speech.  She  had  never  been  popular 
among  them  ;  but  now  the  thought  that  tliey 
would  never  see  her  again,  together,  perliaiw, 
with  the  voiy  handsome  presents  which  she  had 
made,  ant!  her  very  kind  words,  affected  them 
deeply,  and  liicy  showed  some  considerable  feel- 
ing. 

Under  such  circumstances  Hilda  took  her  de- 
parture from  Chetwynde  Castle,  leaving  Gualtier 
in  charge.  In  a  few  days  the  new  servants  ar- 
rived, and  those  of  the  old  ones  who  had  thus  far 
remained  now  took  their  departure.  The  house- 
hold was  entirely  remodeled.  The  new  ones  took 
up  their  places ;  and  there  was  not  one  single  per- 
son there  who  knew  any  thing  whatever  about 
the  late  Earl,  or  Hilda,  or  Gualtier.  The  old 
ones  were  scattered  abroad,  and  it  was  not  with- 
in the  bounds  of  ordinary  possibility  that  any  of 
them  would  ever  come  near  the  place. 

In  thus  remodeling  the  household  it  was  some- 
what enlarged.  There  was  the  new  housekeep- 
er, a  staid,  matronly,  respectable  r  looking  wo- 
man ;  three  house-maids,  who  had  formerly  lived 
in  the  north  of  England  ;  a  coachman,  who  had 
never  before  been  out  of  Kent ;  a  butler,  who  had 
formerly  served  in  a  Scotch  family;  two  footmen, 
one  of  whom  had  served  in  Yorkshire,  and  the 
other  in  Cornwall ;  two  grooms,  who  had  been 
bred  in  Yorkshire ;  a  cook,  wlio  iiad  hitherto  pass- 
ed all  her  life  in  London;  and  three  kitclien-maids, 
who  also  had  served  in  that  city.  Thus  the 
household  was  altogether  new,  and  had  been 
carefully  collected  liy  Gualtier  with  a  view 
rather  to  the  place  from  which  they  had  come 
than  to  any  great  excellence  on  the  part  of 
any  of  them.  For  so  large  a  place  it  was  but 
a  small  number,  but  it  was  larger  than  the 
household  which  had  been  dismissed,  and  they 
soon  settled  down  into  their  places. 

One  only  was  left  of  the  old  number.  This 
was  Mrs.  Hart.  But  she  lay  on  her  sick-bed,  anil 
Hilda  looked  upon  her  as  one  whose  life  was 
doomed.  Had  any  thought  of  her  possible  recov- 
ery entered  her  mind,  she  would  have  contrived 
in  some  way  to  get  rid  of  her.  In  spite  of  her 
illness,  she  did  not  lack  attention :  for  the  new 
housekeeper  attached  herself  to  her,  and  gave 
her  the  kindliest  care  and  v.'armest  sympathy. 

Last  of  all,  so  complete  had  been  Hilda's  pre- 
cautions in  view  of  possible  future  difficulties, 
that  when  Gualtier  came  as  the  new  steward,  he 
came  under  a  new  name,  and  was  known  to  the 
household  as  Air.  M'Kenzie. 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

THE   LADY  OF  THE   CASTI.E. 

The  new  household  had  been  led  to  expect 
the  arrival  of  Lady  Chetwynde  at  any  moment. 
They  understood  that  the  old  household  had  not 
given  satisfaction,  that  afier  the  death  of  the 
late  Earl  Lady  Chetwynde  had  gone  away  to  re- 
cruit her  health,  and,  now  that  she  was  better, 
she  ha('  determined  to  make  a  complete  change. 
When  she  herself  arrived  other  changes  would 
be  made.  This  much  Gualtier  managed  to  com- 
municate to  them,  so  as  to  give  them  some  tan- 
gilile  idea  of  the  affairs  of  the  family  and  prevent 
idle  conjecture.  He  let  thcin  know,  also,  tlmt 
Lord  Chetwynde  was  in  India,  and  might  conio 


f 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


119 


popular 
lilt  they 
perlmiw, 
she  liiul 
ed  them 
ible  feel- 

;  her  de- 
Gualtier 
rants  M- 
.  thus  far 
le  house- 
mes  took 
iigle  per- 
er  about  * 
Tlie  old 
not  with- 
it  any  of 

ifas  some- 
jusekeep- 
king  wo- 
.erly  lived 
who  had 
,  who  had 
footmen, 
,  and  the 
had  been 
lerto  pass- 
en-maids. 
Thus  the 
had  been 
1  a  view 
had  come 
e  part  of 
it  was  but 
than  the 
and  they 

er.     This 
-bed,  and 

life  was 
ible  recov- 
contrived 
)ite  of  her 

the  new 
and  gave 
npathy. 
Ida's  pi'e- 
rticidties, 
eward,  lie 
•wn  to  the 


to  expect 
moment. 
Id  had  not 
ith  of  the 
way  to  re- 
vas  better, 
te  change. 
iges  would 
ed  to  eom- 
some  tan- 
id  ]irevent 
also,  tlint 
light  coniQ 


home  at  any  moment,  though  his  engagements 
there  were  so  important  that  it  might  be  impos- 
sible for  him  to  leave. 

After  a  few  days  l^ady  Chetwynde  aiTived  at 
the  Castle,  and  was  greeted  with  respectful  curi- 
osity by  all  within  the  bouse.  Her  cold  and 
aristocratic  bearing  half  repelled  tiiem,  half  ex- 
cited tlieir  admiration.  S)ie  was  very  beauti- 
ful, and  her  high  breeding  was  evident  in  her 
manner ;  but  there  was  about  her  such  frigidity 
and  such  loftiness  of  demeanor  that  it  repelled 
those  who  would  have  been  willing  to  give  her 
their  love.  8he  brought  n  maid  with  her  who 
had  only  been  engaged  a  short  time  previously ; 
and  it  was  soon  known  that  the  maid  stood  in 
great  awe  of  her  mistress,  who  was  haughty  and 
exacting,  and  who  shut  herself  off  altogether 
from  any  of  those  attempts  at  respectful  sympa- 
thy which  some  kind-hearted  lady's-maids  might 
be  inclined  to  show.  The  whole  household  soon 
shared  in  this  feeling ;  for  the  lady  of  the  Castle 
showed  herself  rigid  in  her  requirements  of  duty 
and  strict  in  her  rule,  while,  at  tlie  same  time, 
site  made  her  appearance  but  seldom.  iShe  nev- 
er visited  Mrs.  Hart,  but  once  or  twice  made 
some  cold  inquiries  about  her  of  the  housekeejier. 
She  also  gave  out  that  she  would  not  receive  any 
visitors — a  precautionary  measure  that  was  not 
greatly  needed ;  for  Chetwynde  Castle  was  re- 
mote from  the  sp'.is  of  the  county  families,  and 
any  changes  there  would  not  be  known  among 
tliem  for  some  time. 

The  lady  of  the  Castle  spent  the  greater  part 
of  her  time  in  her  boudoir,  alone,  never  toler- 
ating the  ])resence  of  even  her  maid  except  when 
it  was  absolutely  necessary,  but  requiring  her  to 
be  always  near  in  case  of  any  need  for  her  ])res- 
ence  arising.  The  maid  attriluited  this  strange 
.seclusion  to  the  effects  of  grief  over  her  recent 
bereavement,  or  perhaps  anxiety  about  her  hus- 
band ;  while  the  other  servants  soon  began  to 
conjecture  that  her  husband's  absence  arose  from 
some  quarrel  with  a  wife  whose  haughty  and  im- 
))erious  demeanor  they  all  had  occasion  to  feel. 

It  was  thus,  then,  that  Hilda  had  entered  upon 
her  new  and  perilous  position,  to  attain  to  which 
siie  liad  plotted  so  deeply  and  dared  so  much. 
Now  that  she  had  attained  it,  there  was  not  an 
hour,  not  a  moment  of  tlie  day,  in  which  she  did 
not  pay  some  penalty  for  the  past  l)y  a  thousand 
anxieties.  To  look  forward  to  such  a  thing  as 
this  was  one  thing ;  but  to  be  here,  where  she 
ha"d  so  often  longed  to  be,  was  quite  another 
tiling.  It  Avas  the  hackneyed  fable  of  Damocles 
with  the  swoi^l  over  his  head  over  again.  She 
w.is  standing  on  treacherous  ground,  which  at 
any  moment  might  give  way  beneath  her.  feet 
and  plunge  her  in  an  abyss  of  ruin.  To  live 
thus  face  to  face  with  ])ossible  destruction,  to 
stare  death  in  the  face  every  day,  was  not  a 
thing  conducive  either  to  mildness  or  to  tender- 
ness in  any  nature,  much  less  in  one  like  hers. 

In  that  boiuloir  where  she  spent  so  much  of 
her  time,  while  her  maid  wondered  how  she  em- 
ployed herself,  her  occujiation  consisted  of  but 
one  thing.  It  was  the  examination  of  papers, 
followed  by  deej)  thought  over  the  result  of  that 
examination.  Every  mail  brought  to  her  ad- 
dress newspapers  both  from  home  and  alndnd. 
Among  the  latter  were  a  number  of  Indian  \)a- 
)>ers,  inihlishcd  in  various  places,  including  some 
that  were  printed  in  remote  towns  in  the  north. 


There  were  the  Delhi  Gazette,  the  Allahabad 
News,  and  the  Lahore  Journal,  all  of  which  were 
most  diligently  scanned  by  her.  Next  to  these 
were  the  Times  and  the  Army  and  Navy  Ga- 
zette. No  other  papers  or  books,  or  prints  of 
any  kind,  had  any  interest  in  her  eyes. 

It  was  natural  that  her  thoughts  should  thus 
refer  to  India.     All  her  plans  had  succeeded,  as 
far  as  she  could  know,  and,  finally,  she  had  re- 
modeled the  household  at  Chetwynde  in  suchan 
way  that  not  one  remained  who  could  by  any 
possibility  know  about  the  previous  inmates. 
She  was  here  as  Lady  Chetwynde,  the  lady  of 
Chetwynde  Castle,  rider  over  a  great  estate,  mis- 
tress of  a  place  that  might  have  excited  the  envy 
of  any  one  in  England,  looked  up  to  with  awful 
reverence  fry  her  dependents,  and  In  the  posses- 
sion of  every  luxury  that  wealth  could  supply. 
But  still  the  sword  was  suspended  over  her  head. 
!  and  by  a  single  hair — a  sword  that  at  any  mo- 
;  ment  might  fall.     Whnt  could  she  know  about 
the  intentions  of  Lord  Chetwynde  all  this  time  ? 
I  What,  were  his  plans  or  pui-poses?    Was  it  not 
,  possible,  in  s])ite  of  her  firml}'  expressed  convic- 
tions to  the  contrary,  that  lie  might  come  back 
I  again  to  England  ?    And  then  what  ?    Then — 
[  ah !  that  was  tJ.e  thing  beyond  which  it  was  dif- 
I  ficult  for  her  imagination  to  go — the  crisis  beyond 
which  it  was  imposisible  to  tell  what  the  future 
!  might  unfold.     It  was  a  moment  which  she  was 
j  ever  forced  to  anticipate  in  her  thoughts,  against 
I  which  she  had  always  to  arm  herself,  so  as  to  be 
,  not  taken  at  unawares. 

I      She  had  thrown  herself  thus  boldly  into  Chet- 
'  wynde  Castle,  into  the  very  centre  of  that  possi- 
I  ble  danger  which  lay  before  her.     But  was  it 
j  necessary  to  run  so  great  a  risk  ?    Could  aim 
I  not  at  least  have  gone  to  I'omeroy  Court,  and 
'  taken  uji  her  abode  there  ?    Woidd  not  this  also 
I  have  been  a  very  natural  thing  for  the  daughter 
'  of  General  Pomeroy?   It  would,  indeed,  be  natu- 
I  ral,  and  it  might  give  many  advantages.     In  the 
,  first  place,  there  would  be  no  possibility  that 
!  Lord  Chetwynde,  even  if  he  did  return  fl'om  In- 
dia, would  ever  seek  her  out  there.     She  might 
j  communicate  with  him  by  means  of  those  letters 
!  which  for  years  he  had  received.     She  might  re- 
'  ceive  his  answers,  and  make  known  to  him  what- 
'  ever  she  Chose,  without  being  compelled  to  see 
him  face  to  face.     By  such  a  course  she  might 
gain  what  she  wished  without  endangering  her 
safety. 

All  this  had  occurred  to  her  long  before,  and 
she  had  regarded  it  in  all  its  bearings.     Never- 
I  theless,  she  had  decided  against  it,  and  had 
I  chosen  rather  to  encounter  the  risk  of  her  pres- 
I  ent  action.     It  was  from  a  certain  profound  in- 
sight into  the  future.     She  thought  that  it  was 
best  for  Lady  Chetwynde  to  go  to  Chetwynde 
Castle,  not  to  Pomeroy  Court.     By  such  an  act 
!  scandal  would  be  avoided.     If  Lord  Chetwynde 
I  did  not  come,  well  and  good ;   if  he  did,  why 
I  then  he  must  he  met  face  to  face ;  and  in  such 
I  an  event  she  trusted  to  her  own  genius  to  bring 
her  out  of  so  frightful  a  crisis.     That  meeting 
would  bring  with  it  much  risk  and  many  dan- 
gers; but  it  would  also  bring  its  own  peculiar 
benefits.     If  it  were  once  succes.sfuUy  encount- 
ered her  position  would  be  insured,  and  the  fear 
of  future  danger  would  vanish.     For  that  feason, 
if  for  no  other,  she  determined  to  go  to  Chet- 
wynde (yastle,  run  every  risk,  and  meet  her  fatv. 


•JW- 


120 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


While  Hilda  was  thus  haughty  and  repellent 
to  her  servants,  there  was  one  to  whom  she  was 
accessible  ;  and  this  was  the  new  steward,  (juuI- 
tier,  with  whom  she  had  frequent  communica- 
tions about  the  business  of  the  estate.  Their  in- 
terviews generally  took  place  in  that  morning- 
room  which  has  already  been  described,  and 
which  was  so  peculiarly  situated  that  no  prying 
servants  could  easily  watch  them  or  overhear 
tij^ir  conversation,  if  they  were  careful. 

One  day,  after  she  had  dined,  she  went  to  tliis 
room,  and  ordered  her  maid  to  tell  the  steward 
that  she  would  like  to  see  him.  She  had  that 
day  received  a  number  of  Indian  papers,  over 
which  she  had  passed  many  hours ;  for  there 
was  something  in  one  of  them  which  seemed  to 
e.\cite  her  interest,  and  certainly  gave  occupa- 
tion to  all  her  mind. 

Gualtier  was  prompt  to  obey  the  man  "  ~  In 
a  few  minutes  after  Hilda  had  entered  "n 

he  made  his  appearance,  and  bowed  ii. 
Hilda  motioned  him  to  a  chair,  in  wh.  .le 
seated  himself.  The  intercourse  of  thesp  two 
had  now  become  remarkable  for  this,  that  their 
attitude  toward  one  another  had  undergone  a 
change  corresponding  to  their  apparent  positions. 
Hilda  was  Lady  Chetwynde,  and  seemed  in  re- 
ality, even  in  her  inmost  soul,  to  feel  herself  to 
be  so.  She  had  insensibly  caugiit  that  grand  air 
which  so  lofty  a  position  might  be  supposed  to 
give ;  and  it  was  quite  as  much  bar  own  feeling 
as  any  power  of  consummate  aciing  which  made 
her  carry  out  her  part  so  well.  A  lofty  and  dig- 
nified demeanor  toward  the  rest  of  the  household 
might  have  been  but  the  ordinary  act  of  one  who 
was  playing  a  part;  but  in  Hilda  this  demeanor 
extended  itself  even  to  Gualtier,  toward  whom 
she  exhibited  the  same  air  of  conscious  social 
superiority  which  she  might  have  shown  had  she 
been  in  reality  all  that  she  pretended  to  be. 
Gualtier,  on  his  part,  was  equally  singular.  He 
seemed  (piieily  to  nccej)!  her  position  as  a  true 
and  valid  one,  and  that,  too,  not  only  before  the 
servants,  when  it  would  have  been  very  natural 
for  him  to  do  so,  but  even  when  they  were  alone. 
This,  however,  was  not  so  difficult  for  him,  as  he 
had  always  been  in  the  habit  of  regarding  her  as 
his  social  superior;  yet  still,  considering  the  con- 
fidences which  existed  between  this  extraordinary 
pair,  it  was  certainly  strange  that  he  should  have 
preserved  with  such  constancy  his  attitude  of 
meek  subservience.  Here,  at  Chetwynde,  ho  ad- 
dressed her  as  the  steward  of  the  estates  should 
have  done  ;  and  even  when  discussing  the  most 
delicate  matters  his  tone  and  demeanor  corre- 
sponded with  his  office. 

<3n  this  occasion  he  began  with  some  intelli- 
gence about  the  state  of  the  north  wall,  which 
bounded  the  park.  Hilda  listened  wearily  till 
he  had  finished.  Then  she  abruptly  brought 
forward  all  that  was  in  her  thoughts.  Before 
doing  so,  however,  she  went  to  the  door  to  see 
that  no  one  was  present  and  listening  there,  as 
she  had  herself  once  listened.  To  those  who 
were  at  all  on  their  guard  there  was  no  danger. 
The  morning-room  was  only  approached  by  a 
long,  narrow  liaJl,  in  which  no  one  could  come 
without  being  detected,  if  any  one  in  the  room 
chose  to  watch.  Hilda  now  took  her  seat  on  a 
chair  from  which  she  could  look  np  the  hall,  and 
thus,  feeling  secure  from  observation  or  from 
listeners,  she  began,  in  a  low  voice: 


"  I  received  the  Indian  papers  to-day." 

"  I  was  aware  of  that,  my  lady,"  said  (iualtier, 
respectfully.  "Did  you  see  any  thing  in  them 
of  importance?" 

"  Nothing  certain,  but  something  si  '"-ient  to 
excite  concern." 

"About  Lord  Chetwynde?" 

"Yes." 

"  He  can  not  be  coming  home,  si  y?"  said 
Gualtier,  interrogatively. 

"  I'm  afraid  that  he  is." 

Gualtier  looked  serious. 

"  I  thought,"  said  he,  ' '  my  lady,  that  you  had 
nearly  given  up  all  expectation  of  seeing  him  for 
some  time  to  come. " 

"  I  have  never  yet  given  up  those  expectations. 
1  have  all  along  thought  it  possible,  though  not 
probable ;  and  so  I  have  always  watched  all  the 
papers  to  see  if  he  had  left  his  station. " 

"1  suppose  he  would  not  write  about  his  in- 
tentions." 

"To  whom  could  he  think  of  writing?"  asked 
Hilda,  with  a  half  sneer. 

"I  thought  that  perhaps  he  might  write  to 
Lady  Chetwynde." 

"  Lady  Chetwynde's  letters  to  him  have  been 
of  such  a  character  that  it  is  not  very  likely  that 
he  will  ever  write  to  her  again,  except  under  the 
pressure  of  urgent  necessity." 

"  Have  you  seen  any  thing  in  particular  in  any 
of  the  papers  about  him  ?"  asked  Gualtier,  after 
some  silence. 

I  "Yes.  In  one.  It  is  the  Allahabad  News. 
I  The  jjaragrajih  hnpiiened  to  catch  my  eye  by  tlje 
'  merest  accident,  I  think.  There  is  nothing  about 
j  it  in  any  of  the  other  Indian  papers,  fcee ;  I  will 
show  it  to  you." 

I  And  Hilda,  drawing  a  newspaper  from  her 
pocket,  unfolded  it,  and  pointing  to  a  place  in  one 
of  the  inside  columns,  she  handed  it  to  Gualtier. 
He  took  it  with  a  bow,  and  read  the  following : 

"  Personal — We  regret  to  leani  that  Lord  Chet- 
wynde lias  recently  resigned  his  position  as  Itesidcnt  at 
Lahore.  The  recent  death  of  his  fatlier,  tlie  late  Earl 
of  Chetwynde,  and  the  large  interests  which  demand 
his  personal  attention,  are  assigned  as  the  causes  for  tiiis 
step.  His  departure  for  England  will  leave  a  vacancy 
in  otu"  Anglo-Indian  service  which  will  not  easily  l)o 
Hiied.  Lord  Chetwynde's  career  in  this  important  part 
of  the  empire  has  been  so  l)rilliant,  that  it  is  a  matter 
for  sincere  regret  that  he  is  prevented,  by  any  cause, 
from  remaining  here.  In  the  late  war  he  made  his 
name  conspicuons  by  his  valor  and  consummate  mil- 
itary genius.  In  the  siege  of  Delhi  he  won  laurels 
wtiich  will  place  his  name  high  on  the  roll  of  thone 
whom  England  loves  to  honor.  Afterward,  in  tlie 
operations  against  Tantia  Toiipi,  his  bold  exploits  will 
not  soon  be  forgotten.  His  appointment  to  the  Resi- 
dency at  Lahore  was  made  only  a  few  months  since; 
yet  in  that  short  time  ho  has  shown  an  administrative 
talent  whicli,  witliout  any  reflection  on  our  other  able 
ofllcials,  we  may  safely  pronounce  to  be  very  rare  in  tlie 
departments  of  oar  civil  service.  He  is  but  a  young 
man  yet ;  but  seldom  has  it  liapnened  tliat  one  so  young 
has  exhibited  siicli  mature  intellectual  powers,  and  such 
firm  decision  in  the  management  of  the  most  delicate 
cases.  A  gallant  soldier,  a  wise  ruler,  and  a  genial 
friend,  Lord  Chetwynde  will  be  missed  in  all  those  de- 
partments of  public  and  private  lite  of  which  he  has 
been  so  conspicuous  an  ornament.  As  journalists,  we 
wish  to  record  this  estimate  of  his  virtues  and  liis  gen- 
ius, and  we  feel  sure  that  it  will  be  shared  by  all  who 
liave  been  in  any  way  familiar  with  the  career  of  tills 
distinguislied  gentleman.  For  the  rest,  we  wish  him 
most  cordially  a  prosperous  voyage  home ;  and  we  an- 
ticipate for  him  in  the  mother  country  a  career  corre- 
sponding with  his  illustrious  rank,  and  commensurate 
with  the  brilliant  opening  which  he  made  in  this  coun- 
try during  those  recent '  tfines  which  trietl  men's  souls. ' " 

Gualtier  read  this  paragraph  over  twice,  and 


THE  CKYPTOGUAM. 


121 


then  sat  for  some  time  in  thought.  At  last  he 
looket'  up  ut  Hilda,  who  had  all  this  time  been 
intently  watching  him. 

"That's  bad,"  exclaimed  he,  and  said  no  more. 

"  It  seems  that,  after  all,  he  is  coming,"  said 
Hilda. 

"  Have  you  seen  his  name  in  any  of  the  lists 
of  passengers'?" 

"No." 

"  Then  he  has  not  left  yet." 

"Perhaps  not ;  but  still  I  can  not  trust  to  that 
altogether.     His  nams  may  be  omitted." 

"  Would  such  a  name  as  his  be  likely  to  be 
omitted?" 

"I  suppose  not;  and  so  he  can  not  have  left 
India  as  yet — unless,  indeed,  he  baa  come  under 
an  assumed  name." 

"  An  assumed  name!  Would  he  be  capable 
of  that  ?  And  if  he  were,  what  motive  could  he 
have?" 

"Ah!  there  lam  unable  to  find  an  answer.  I'm 
afraid  I  have  been  judging  of  Lord  t.'hetwynde 
by  that."  And  Hilda  pointed  to  the  portrait  of 
the  young  officer,  Guy  Molyneux,  over  the  fire- 
place. "Years  have  changed  him,  and  I  have 
not  made  allowance  for  the  years.  I  think  'now 
that  this  Lord  Chetwynde  must  be  very  different 
from  that  Guy  Molyneux.  This  hero  of  Delhi ; 
this  assailant  of  Tantia  Toupi ;  this  dashing  of- 
ficer, who  is  at  once  brilliant  in  the  field  and  in 
the  .social  circle ;  this  man  who,  in  addition  to 
all  this,  has  proved  himself  to  be  a  wise  ruler, 
with  a  '  genius  for  administration,'  is  a  man  who, 
1, confess,  dawns  upon  me  so  suddenly  that  it 
gives  me  a  shock.  I  have  been  thinking  of  an 
innocent  boy.  find  that  this  boy  has  grown  to 
be  a  great,  brave,  wise,  strong  man !  There,  I 
think,  is  the  first  mistake  that  I  have  made." 

Hilda's  words  were  full  of  truth  and  meaning. 
Gualtier  felt  that  meaning. 

"  You  have  an  alternative  still,"  said  he. 

"What  is  tb  It?" 

"You  need  not  stay  here," 

"What!  Run  away  from  him — in  fear?" 
said  Hilda,  scornfully.  "Kun  away  from  this 
place  before  I  even  know  for  certain  that  he  is 
coming  ?    That,  at  least,  I  will  not  do. " 

"There  is  Pomeroy  Court,"  hinted  Gualtier. 

"No.  Chetwynde  Castle  is  my  only  home. 
I  live  here,  or — nowhere.  If  I  have  to  en- 
counter him,  it  shall  be  face  to  face,  and  here 
in  this  house — perhaps  in  this  room.  Had 
I  seen  this  a  month  ago  my  decision  might 
have  been  different,  though  I  don't  know  even 
that;  but  now,  under  any  circumstances,  it  is 
too  late  to  go  back,,  or  to  swerve  by  one  hair's 
breadth  from  the  path  which  I  have  laid  down 
for  myself.  It  is  well  that  I  have  seen  all  this" — 
and  she  jiointed  to  the  newspaper — "for  it  has 
given  me  a  new  view  of  the  man.  I  ^hall  not  be 
so  likely  to  underrate  him  now ;  and  being  fore- 
warned I  will  be  forearmed. " 

"There  is  still  the  prolmbility,"  said  Gualtier, 
thoughtfully,  "that  he  may  not  come  to  En- 
gland." 

"There  is  a  possibility,"  said  Hilda,  "cer- 
tainly ;  but  it  is  not  probable,  after  so  decided 
an  act  performe<l  by  one  in  so  im])ortant  a  posi- 
tion, that  he  will  remain  in  India.  For  why 
should  he  remain  there?  What  could  possibly 
cause  him  to  resign,  except  the  fixed  intention  of 
coming  home?    No;  there  can  not  be  the  slight- 


est doubt  that  his  coming  home  is  as  certain  as 
the  dawn  of  to-morrow.  What  I  wonder  at, 
however,  is,  that  he  should  delay ;  I  should 
have  expected  to  hear  of  his  arrival  in  Lon- 
don. Yet  that  can  not  be,  for  his  name  is  not 
down  at  all ;  and  if  he  had  come,  surely  a  name 
like  his  could  not  by  any  possibility  be  omitted. 
No,  he  can  not  have  come  just  yet.  But  he  will, 
no  doubt,  come  in  the  next  steamer." 

"There  is  yet  another  chance,"  said  Gualtier. 

"What  is  .that?" 

"  He  may  come  to  England,  and  yet  not  come 
here  to  Chetwynde." 

"I  have  thoi'ght  of  that  too,"  said  Hilda, 
"  and  used  to  think  of  it  as  very  probable  in- 
deed ;  but  now  a  ray  of  light  has  been  let  into 
my  mind,  and  I  see  what  manner  of  man  he 
is.  That  boy" — and  she  again  pointed  to  the 
portrait — "was  the  one  who  misled  me.  Such  a 
one  as  he  might  have  been  so  animated  by  hate 
that  he  might  keep  away  so  ns  not  to  be  forced 
to  see  his  detested -wife.  But  this  man  is  difl^er- 
ent.  This  soldier,  this  vuler,  this  mature  man — 
who  or  what  is  his  wife,  hated  though  she  be,  or 
what  is  she  to  him  in  any  way,  that  she  should 
prove  the  slightest  obstacle  in  the  path  of  one 
like  him?  He  would  meet  her  as  her  lord  and 
master,  and  brush  her  away  as  he  would  a  moth." 

"  You  draw  this  absent  man  in  grand  colors," 
said  Gualtier.  "  Perhaps,  my  lady,  your  imagin- 
ation is  carrying  you  away.  But  if  he  is  all  this 
that  you  say,  how  can  you  venture  to  meet  him  ? 
Will  you  risk  being  thus  '  brushed  awuy,'  as  you 
say,  Mike  a  moth  ?' " 

Hilda's  eyes  lighted  up. 

"  I  am  not  one  who  can  be  brushed  away,"  said 
she,  calmly;  "and,  therefore,  whatever  he  is, 
and  whenever  he  comes,  I  will  be  prepared  to 
meet  him." 

Hilda's  tone  was  so  firm  and  decided  that  it 
left  no  room  for  further  argument  or  remon- 
strance. Nor  did  Gualtier  attempt  any.  Some 
conversation  followed,  and  he  soon  took  his  de- 
parture. 


CHAPTER  XXXVL 

FACE  TO   FACE. 

Some  time  passed  away  after  the  conversation 
related  in  the  last  chapter,  and  one  evening 
Hilda  was  in  her  boudoir  alone,  as  usual.  She 
was  somewhat  paler,  more  nervous,  and  less 
calm  than  she  had  been  a  few  months  ])revious- 
ly.  Her  usual  stealthy  air  had  now  developed- 
info  one  of  wary  watchfulness,  and  the  quiet 
noiselessness  of  her  actions,  her  manner,  and 
her  movements  had  become  intensified  into  a 
habit  of  motionless  repose,  accompanied  by  fre- 
(pient  fits  of  deep  abstraction.  On  the  present 
occasion  she  was  reclining  on  her  couch,  with  her 
hand  shading  her  eyes.  She  had  been  lying  thus 
for  some  time,  lost  in  thought,  and  occasionally 
rousing  herself  sharply  from  her  meditations  to 
look  around  her  with  lier  watchful  and  suspicious 
eyes.  In  this  attitude  she  remained  till  evening 
came,  and  then,  with  the  twilight,  she  sank  into 
a  deep  abstraction,  one  so  deep  that  she  could 
not  readily  rouse  herself. 

It  was  with  a  great  start,  therefore,  that  she 
rose  to  her  feet  ns  a  sudden  noise  struck  her 
ears.     It  was  the  noise  of  a  carriage  moving 


122 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


rnpidly  up  through  the  avenue  toward  the  house. 
For  a  cariiaae  to  come  to  lUietwyndo  Castle  at 
any  tiinu  was  a  most  unusual  thing ;  but  for  one 
to  come  after  dark  was  a  thing  iinheiird  of.  At 
once  there  came  to  Hilda  a  thought  like  light- 
ning as  to  who  it  might  be  that  thus  drove  up ; 
the  thought  was  momentous  and  overwhelming ; 
it  might  have  been  sufficient  to  have  destroyed 
all  courage  and  all  presence  of  mind  had  her 
nerves  lieen,  by  the  slightest  degree,  less  strong. 
IJut  as  it  was,  her  nerve  sustained,  her,  and  her 
courage  did  not  falter  for  one  single  instant. 
Wirli  a  calm  face  and  firm  step  she  advanced 
to  the  window.  With  a  steady  hand  she  drew 
the  curtains  aside  and  looked  out.  Little  could 
lie  seen  amidst  the  gloom  at  first ;  but  at  length, 
as  she  gazed,  she  was  able  to  distinguish  the  dim 
outline  of  a  carriage,  as  it  emerged  from  the  shad- 
ows of  the  avenue  and  drove  up  to  the  chief  door. 

Then  site  stepped  back  toward  the  door  of  her 
boudoir,  and  listened,  but  nothing  could  be  heard. 
She  then  lighted  two  lamps;  and,  turning  to  a 
cheval-glass  at  one  end  of  her  room,  she  put 
one  lamp  on  each  side, -so  that  the  ligiit  might 
strike  on  her  to  the  best  advantage,  and  then 
scrutinized  herself  with  a  steady  and  critical 
glance.  Tiius  she  stood  for  a  long  time,  watch- 
fid  and  motionless,  actuated  by  a  motive  far  dif- 
ferent from  any  thing  like  vanity  ;  and  if  she  re- 
ceived gratification  from  a  survey  of  herself,  it 
was  any  thing  but  gratified  pride.  It  was  a  deeper 
motive  than  girlish  curiosity  that  inspired  such 
stern  self-inspection  ;  and  it  was  a  stronger  feel- 
ing than  vanity  that  resulted  from  it.  It  was 
sonietliiug  more  than  things  like  these  which 
nuide  iier,  at  so  dread  a  moment,  look  so  anx- 
iously at  her  imago  in  the  glass. 

As  slie  stood  there  a  taj)  came  at  the  door. 

"Come  in,'  said  Hilda,  in  her  usual  calm 
tone,  turning  as  she  spoke  to  face  the  djor. 

It  was  the  maid. 

"My  lady,"  said  she,  "his  lordship  has  just 
arrived." 

lo  her,  at  that  moment,  such  intelligence  could 
have  been  nothing  less  than  tremendous.  It  told 
her  that  the  crisis  of  her  life  had  come ;  and  to 
meet  it  was  inevitable,  whatever  the  result  might 
be.  He  hud  come.  He,  the  one  whom  she 
mu.st  face ;  not  the  crude  boy,  but  the  man,  tried 
in  battle  and  in  danger  and  in  judgment,  in  the 
camj)  and  in  the  court ;  the  man  who  she  now 
knew  well  was  not  surpassed  liy  many  men  among 
that  haughty  race  to  which  he  belonged.  This 
man  was  accustomed  to  face  guilt  and  fear  ;  he 
•  iiad  learned  to  read  the  soul;  he  had  become 
familiar  with  all  that  tlie  face  may  make  known 
of  the  secret  terrors  of  conscience.  And  how 
could  she  meet  the  calm  eyes  of  one  who  found 
her  here  in  such  a  relation  toward  him  ?  Yet 
all  this  she  had  weigiied  before  in  her  mind  ;  she 
was  not  unprepared.  Tlie  iiour  and  the  man  had 
come.     fShe  was  found  ready. 

She  regarded  the  maid  for  a  few  moments  in 
silence.     At  last  she  spoke. 

"Very  well,"  she  said,  coldly,  and  without 
any  perceptible  emotion  of  any  kind.  "  I  will 
go  down  to  meet  his  lordship." 

His  lordshij)  has  just  arrived  !  The  words  had 
been  spoken,  and  the  speaker  had  departed,  but 
the  words  still  echoed  and  re-eclioed  through  the 
soul  of  the  hearer.  What  might  this  involve? 
and  what  would  be  the  end  of  this  arrival  ? 


Suddenly  she  stepped  to  the  door  and  called 
thd  maid. 

"  Ha;i  any  one  accompanied  his  lordship?" 

"No,  my  lady." 

"He  came  alone?" 

"  Yes,  my  lady." 

"Did  Mr.  M'Kenzie  see  him ?" 

"  No,  my  lady.     He  is  not  in  the  house." 

Hilda  closed  the  door,  went  back,  and  again 
stood  before  the  mir"or.  Some  time  elapsed  as 
she  stood  there  regarding  herself,  with  strange 
thoughts  passing  through  lier  mind.  She  did  not 
find  it  necessary,  however,  to  make  any  altera- 
tions in  her  appearance.  She  did  not  change 
one  fold  in  her  attire,  or  vary  one  hair  of  her  head 
from  its  jtlace.  It  was  as  though  this-  present 
dress  and  this  present  ai)])earance  had  been  long 
ago  decided  upon  by  her  for  just  such  a  meeting 
as  this.  Whether  she  had  antici])ated  such  a 
meeting  so  suddenly — wiiether  sl'.e  was  amazed  or 
not — whether  she  was  at  all  taken  "oy  surprise  or 
not,  could  not  apjiear  in  any  way  from  her  action 
or  her  demeanor.  In  the  face  of  so  terrilile  a 
crisis,  whose  full  meaning  and  import  she  must 
have  felt  profoundly,  she  stood  there,  calm  a'ld 
self-contained,  with  the  selt'-iioise  of  one  who  has 
been  long  jirepared,  and  who,  when  the  hour  big 
with  fate  at  last  may  come,  is  not  overwhelmed, 
but  rises  with  the  occasion,  goes  forth  to  the  en- 
counter, and  prepares  to  contend  with  destiny. 

It  was,  perhaps,  about  half  an  hour  before 
Hilda  went  down.  She  went  with  a  steady  step 
and  a  calm  face  down  the  long  corridor,  down 
the  great  stairway,  through  the  chief  hall,  and 
at  length  entered  the  drawing-room. 

On  entering  she  saw  a  tall  man  standing  there, 
with  his  back  turned  toward  the  door,  looking 
up  at  a  ])ortrait  of  the  Inte  Karl.  So  intently  was 
ho  occupied  that  he  did  not  hear  her  entering; 
but  a  slight  noise,  made  by  a  chair  as  she  passed 
it,  startled  him,  and  he  turned  and  looked  at  her, 
disclosing  to  her  curious  yet  ap])rchensive  gaze 
the  fall  features  and  figure  of  the  new  Lord  Chet- 
wynde.  On  that  instant,  as  he  turned  and  faced 
her,  she  took  in  his  whole  face  and  mien  and 
stature.  She  saw  a  broad,  intellectual  brow, 
covered  with  dark  clustering  hair ;  a, face  bronzed 
by  the  suns  of  India  and  tlie  exposure  of  the  cam- 
l)aign,  the  lower  part  of  which  was  hidden  by  a 
heavy  beard  and  mustache ;  and  a  tall,  erect, 
stalwart  frame,  with  the  unmistakable  air  of  a 
soldier  in  every  outline.  His  mien  had  in  it  a 
certain  indescribable  grace  of  high  breeding,  and 
the  commanding  air  of  one  accustomed  to  be  the 
ruler  of  men.  His  ej'es  were  dark,  and  full  of 
quiet  but  resistless  power.;  and  they  beamed 
uiion  her  lustrously,  yet  gloomily,  and  with  a 
piercing  glance  of  scrutiny  from  under  his  dark 
brows.  His  face  bore  the  impress  of  a  sadness 
dee])er  that}  that  which  is  usually  seen — sadness 
that  had  reigned  there  long — a  sadness,  too, 
which  had  given  to  that  face  a  more  sombre  cast 
than  common,  from  some  grief  which  had  been 
added  to  former  ones.  It  was  but  for  a  moment 
that  he  looked  at  her,  and  then  he  bowed  with 
grave  courtesy.  Hilda  also  bowed  without  a  word, 
and  then  waited  for  Lord  Chetwynde  to  s]jeak. 

But  Lord  Chetwynde  did  not  speak  for  some 
time.  His  earnest  eyes  were  still  fixed  upon  the 
one  before  him,  and  though  it  might  have  been 
rudeness,  yet  it  was  excusable,  from  the  weight 
which  lay  on  his  soul.  ■.--•,(,. 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM, 


123 


Hilda,  fi)v  her  part,  stood  there,  calm,  wateh- 
t'lil,  and  expectant.  That  .slender  and  graceful 
figure,  with  its  simple  and  elegant  dress,  which 
set  off  to  the  utmost  the  i)erfection  of  he;-  form, 
looked  certainly  unlike  the  ungrown  ^xirl  whom 
Lord  ChetwviKlo  had  seen  years  hefore.  Still 
more  unlike  was  the  face.     Pale,  with  delicate, 


transparent  skin,  it  was  not  so  dark  as  that  face 
which  had  dwelt  in  his  memoiy.  Her  eyes  did 
not  seem  so  wild  and  staring  as  those  of  tlie  imp 
whom  he  had  married :  but  deep,  dark,  and 
strong  in  their  gaze,  as  they  looked  back  steadily 
into  his.  The  hair  was  now  no  longer  dis- 
ordered, but  enfolded  in  its  dark,   voluminous 


124 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


nia.sge8,  so  as  to  set  off  to  the  best  advantage  the 
well-shupcd  head,  and  slender,  beautifully  round- 
ed neck.  The  one  whom  he  remembered  liad 
been  hideous ;  this  one  was  beautiful.  But  th« 
beauty  that  he  saw  wns,  nevertheless,  hard,  cold, 
and  repellent.  For  Hilda,  in  her  beauty  and 
grace  and  intellectual  subtilty,  stood  there 
watchful  and  vigilant,  like  a  keen  fencer  on 
guard,  waiting  to  see  what  the  first  spoken  word 
migiit  disclose;  waiting  to  see  what  that  grand 
lordly  face,  with  its  air  of  command,  its  repressed 
grief,  its  deep  piercing  eyes,  might  shadow  forth. 

A  singular  meeting;  but  Lord  Chetwynde 
seemed  to  think  it  natural  ^enough,  and  after  a 
few  moments  he  remarked,  in  a  quiet  voice : 

"Lady  ("hetwynde,  the  morning-room  will  be 
more  suitable  for  the  interview  which  I  wish,  and, 
■f  you  have  no  objection,  we  will  go  there." 

At  tlie  sound  of  these  words  a  great  revulsion 
took  place  in  Hilda's  feelings,  and  a  sense  of  tri- 
umph succeeded  to  that  intense  anxiety  which 
for  so  long  a  time  had  consumed  her.  The 
sound  of  that  name  by  which  he  had  addressed 
her  had  shown  her  at  once  that  the  worst  part 
of  this  crisis  had  passed  away.  He  had  seen 
i>  her.     He  had  scrutinized  her  with  those  eyes 

i;0  which  seemed  to  read  her  soul,  and  the  end  was 
that  he  had  taken  her  for  what  she  professed  to 
be.  He  had  called  her  "Lady  Chetwynde!" 
After  this  what  more  was  there  which  could  ex- 
cite fear?  Was  not  her  whole  future  now  se- 
cured by  the  utterance  of  those  two  words? 
Yet  Hilda's  self-control  was  so  perfect,  and  her 
vigilance  so  consummate,  that  no  change  what- 
ever expressed  in  her  face  the  immense  revolu- 
tion of  feeling  within  her.  Her  eyes  fell — that 
was  all ;  and  as  she  bowed  her  head  silently,  by 
that  simple  gesture  which  was  at  once  natural 
and  courteous,  she  etfectually  concealed  her  face ; 
so  that,  even  if  there  had  been  a  change  in  its 
expression,  it  could  not  have  been  seen.  Yet, 
after  all,  the  triumph  was  but  instantaneous.  It 
passed  away,  and  soon  there  came  another  feel- 
ing, vague,  indefinable — a  premonition  of  the 
future — a  presentiment  of  gloom ;  and  though 
the  intensity  of  the  suspense  had  passed,  there 
still  remained  a  dark  anxiety  and  a  fear  which 
ill      were  unaccountable. 

Lord  Chetwynde  led  the  way  to  the  morning- 
room,  and  on  arriving  there  he  motioned  her  to 
a  seat.  Hilda  sat  down.  He  sat  opposite  in  an- 
other chair,  not  far  off.  On  the  wall,  where  each 
could  see  it,  hung  his  portrait-^the  figure  of  that 
beardless,  boyish,  dashing  young  officer — very 
different  from  this  matured,  strong-souled  man  ; 
so  different,  indeed,  that  it  seemed  hardly  possi- 
ble that  they  could  be  the  same. 

l>ord  Chetwynde  soon  began. 

' '  Lady  Chetwynde, "  said  he,  again  addressing 
her  by  that  name,  and  speaking  in  a  firm  yet 
melancholy  voice,  "it  is  not  often  that  a  hus- 
band and  a  wife  meet  as  you  and  I  do  now  ;  but 
then  it  is  not  often  that  two  people  become  hus- 
band and  wife  as  you  and  I  have.  I  have  come 
from  India  for  the  sake  of  having  a  full  under- 
standing with  you.  I  had,  until  Intely,  an  idea 
of  coming  here  under  an  assumed  name,  with  the 
wish  of  sparing  you  the  embarrassment  which  I 
supposed  that  the  presence  of  Lord  Chetwynde 
himself  might  possibly  cause  you.  In  fact,  I 
traveled  most  of  the  way  home  from  India  under 
an  assumed  name  with  that  intent.     But  before 


I  reached  England  I  concluded  that  there  was  no 
necessity  for  trying  to  guard  against  any  embar- 
rassment on  your  part,  and  that  it  would  be  in- 
finitely better  to  see  you  in  my  own  person  and 
talk  to  you  without  disguise." 

He  paused  for  a  moment. 

"  Had  you  chosen  to  come  all  the  way  in  your 
own  name,  my  lord,"  said  Hilda,  speaking  now 
for  the  first  time,  "  I  should  have  seen  your  name 
in  the  list  of  passengers,  and  should  have  been 
better  i)repared  for  the  honor  of  your  visit." 

"Concealment  would  have  been  impossible," 
continued  Lord  Chetwynde,  gloomily,  half  to 
himself,  and  without  appearing  to  have  heard 
Hilda's  words,  "here,  in  my  home.  Though 
all  the  old  servants  are  gone,  still  the  old  scenes 
remain  ;  and  if  I  bad  come  here  as  a  stranger  I 
.should  have  shown  so  dee))  an  interest  in  my 
home  that  I  might  have  excited  suspicion.  But 
the  whole  phm  was  impossible,  and,  after  all, 
there  was  no  necessity  for  it,  as  I  do  not  see  that 
your  feelings  have  been  excited  to  madness  by 
my  appearance,  ^'o  far,  then,  all  is  well.  And 
now  to  come  to  the  point ;  and  you,  I  am  sure, 
will  be  the  first  to  excuse  my  abruptness  in  do- 
ing so.  The  unfortunate  bond  that  binds  us  is 
painful  enough  to  you.  It  is  enough  for  me  to 
say  that  I  have  come  home  for  two  reasons :  first, 
to  see  my  home,  possibly  for  the  last  time ;  and 
secondly,  to  announce  to  you  the  decision  at 
which  I  have  arrived  with  regard  to  the  position 
which  we  shall  hereafter  occupy  toward  one  an- 
other." 

Hilda  said  nothing.  Awe  was  a  feeling  which 
was  almost  unknown  to  her;  but  something  of 
that  had  come  over  her  as,  sitting  in  the  presence 
of  this  man,  she  heard  him  say  these  words ;  for 
he  sjjoke  without  any  particular  reference  to  her, 
and  said  them  with  a  grand,  authoritative  air, 
with  the  tone  of  one  accustomed  to  rule  and  to 
dispense  justice.  In  uttering  these  concluding 
words  it  seemed  to  be  his  will,  his  decision,  that 
he  was  announcing  to  some  inferior  being. 

"First,"  he^went  on  to  say,  "let  me  remind 
you  of  our  unhappy  betrothal.  You  were  a  child, 
1  a  boy.  Our  parents  are  responsible  for  that. 
They  meant  well.     Let  us  not  blame  them. 

"Then  came  our  marriage  by  the  death-bed 
of  your  father.  You  were  excited,  and  very 
naturally  so.  You  used  bitter  words  to  me  then 
which  I  have  never  forgotten.  Every  taunt  and 
insult  which  you  then  uttered  has  lived  in  my 
memory.  Why?  Not  because  I  am  inclined  to 
treasure  up  wrong.  No.  Rather  because  yon 
have  taken  such  extreme  pains  to  keep  alive  the 
memory  of  that  event.  Yon  will  remember  that 
in  every  one  of  those  letters  which  you  have 
written  to  me  since  I  left  England  thero  has  not 
been  one  which  has  not  been  filled  with  innu- 
endoes of  the  most  cutting  kind,  and  insults  of 
the  most  galling  nature.  My  father  loved  yoii. 
I  did  not.  But  could  you  not,  for  his  sake,  have 
refrained  from  insult  ?  Why  wns  it  necessary  to 
turn  what  at  first  was  merely  coolness  into  hate 
and  indignation  ? 

"  I  speak  bitterly  about  those  letters  of  yours. 
It  was  those  which  kept  me  so  long  in  India. 
I  could  not  come  to  see  my  father  because  you 
were  here,  and  I  should  have  to  come  and  see 
you.  I  could  not  give  him  trouble  by  letting  him 
know  the  truth,  because  he  loved  you.  Thus 
you  kept  me  away  from  him  and  from  my  homo 


1 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


12J 


at  a  time  whon  I  was  longing  to  be  here ;  and, 
tinally,  to  crown  your  cruelty,  you  sedulously 
eoncuuled  from  me  the  news  of"  my  father's  illness 
till  it  was  too  late,  lie  died;  and  then — then 
you  wrote  that  hideous  letter,  that  abomination 
of  insult  and  vindictiveness,  that  cruel  and  cow- 
ardly stall,  which  you  aimed  at  a  heart  already 
wrung  by  the  grief  of  bereavement !  In  the  very 
letter  which  you  wrote  to  tell  me  of  that  sudden 
and  almost  intolerable  calamity  you  dared  to  say 
that  my  father — that  gentle  and  noble  soul,  who 
so  loved  you  and  trusted  you — that  he,  the  stain- 
less gentleman,  the  soul  of  honor — he,  had  cheat- 
ed you,  ami  that  his  death  was  the  punishment 
inflicaed  by  I'rovidence  for  his  sin  ;  that  he  had 
made  a  cunning  and  dishonest  plan  to  get  you 
for  the  sake  of  your  fortune ;  that  /  had  been 
his  acoomplice ;  and  that  by  his  death  the  venge- 
ance of  Divine  justice  was  manifested  on  both 
of  us!" 

Deep  and  low  grew  the  tones  of  Lord  Chet- 
wynde's  voice  as  he  spoke  these  words — deej) 
and  low,  yet  restrained  with  that  restraint  which 
is  put  over  the  feelings  by  a  strong  nature,  and 
yet  can  not  hide  that  consuming  passion  which 
underlies  all  the  words,  and  makes  them  burn 
with  intensest  heat.  Here  the  hot  fire  of  his  in- 
dignation seemed  to  be  expressed  in  a  blighting 
and  withering  power;  and  Hilda  shrank  within 
herself  involuntarily  in  fear,  trembling  at  this 
teui'ific  denunciation. 

Lord  Ohetwynde  made  a  slight  gesture. 

"Calm  yourself,"  said  he;  "you  can  not  help 
your  nature.  Do  you  suppose  for  one  moment 
that  I,  by  any  possibility,  can  expect  an  expla- 
nation ?  Not  at  all.  1  have  mentioned  this  for 
the  first  and  for  the  last  time.  Kven  while  your 
letters  were  lying  before  me  I  did  not  deign  to 
l)ieathe  one  word  about  them  to  my  father,  from 
whom  I  kept  no  other  secret,  even  though  I  knew 
that,  while  he  loved  you  and  trusted  you,  both  his 
love  and  his  trust  were  thrown  away.  I  would 
not  add  to  his  troubles  by  showing  him  the  true 
character  of  the  woman  to  whom  ho  had  sold  me 
and  bound  me  fast,  and  whom  be  looked  on 
with  aft'ection.  That  sorrow  I  determined  to 
spare  him,  and  so  I  kept  silent.  So  it  was  that 
I  always  spoke 'of  you  with  the  formulas  of  re- 
spect, knowing  well  all  the  time  that  you  your- 
self did  not  deserve  even  that  much.  But  ke 
deseiTed  it,  and  I  quenched  my  own  indignation 
for  his  sake.  But  now  there  is  no  longer  any 
reason  why  I  should  play  the  hypocrite,  and  so  I 
speak  of  these  things.  I  say  this  simply  to  let 
you  know  how  your  conduct  and  character  are  es- 
timated by  one  whose  opinion  is  valued  by  many 
honorable  gentlemen. 

"  Even  after  his  death,"  continued  Lord  Chet- 
wynde,  "I  might  possibly  have  had  some  con- 
sideration for  you,  and,  perhaps,  would  not  have 
used  such  plain  language  as  I  now  do.  But  one 
who  could  take  advantage  of  the  death  of  my 
father  to  give  vent  to  spleen,  and  to  oiTer  insult 
to  one  who  had  never  offended  her,  deserves  no 
consideration.  Such  conduct  as  yours,  Lady 
Chetwynde,  toward  me,  has  been  too  atrocious 
to  be  ever  forgiven  or  forgotten.  To  this  you 
will  no  doubt  say,  with  your  usuid  sneer,  that  my 
forgiveness  is  not  desired.  I  am  glad  if  it  is  not. 
"  To  your  father.  Lady  Chetwynde,  I  once 
made  a  vow  that  I  would  always  he  careful  about 
jour  happiness.     1  made  it  thoughtlessly,  not 


knowing  what  I  was  promising,  not  in  any  way 
understanding  its  full  import.     I  made  it  when 
full  of  gratitude  for  an  act  of  his  which  I  re- 
garded only  by  itself,  without  thinking  of  all 
j  that  was  required  of  me.     I  made  it  as  a  thought- 
j  less  boy.    But  that  vow  I  intend  now,  as  a  mature 
'  man,  to  fulfill,  most  sacredly  and  solemnly.    For 
I  intend  to  care  for  your  happiness,  and  that,  too, 
in.  a  way  which  will  be  most  agreeable  to  you. 
j  1  shall  thus  be  able  to  keep  that  rash  and  hasty 
I  vow,  which  I  once  thought  I  would  never  be  able 
j  to  keep.     The  way  in  which  I  intend  to  keep  it 
I  is  one.  Lady  Chetwynde,  which  will  insure  pev- 
■  feet  happiness  to  one  like  you ;  an<l  as  you  are, 
no  doubt,  anxious  to  know  how  it  is  possible  for 
me  to  do  such  a  thing,  I  will  hasten  to  inform  you. 
"The  way  in  which  I  intend.   Lady  Chet- 
i  wynde,  to  fulfill  my  vow  and  secure  yom-  perfect 
i  happiness  is,  first  of  all,  by  separating  myself 
j  from  you  forever.     This  is  the  f.rst  thing.     It  is 
I  not  such  an  accomplishment  of  that  vow  as  either 
'  your  father  or  mine  anticipated ;    bnt  in  your 
,  eyes  and  mine  it  will  be  a  perfect  fulfillment. 
Fortunate  it  is  for  me  that  the  thing  which  you 
desire  most  is  also  the  very  thing  which  I  most 
desire.     Your  last  letter  settled  a  problem  which 
has  been  troubling  me  for  years. 

"This,  however,  is  only  part  of  my  decision. 
I  will  let  you  know  the  rest  as  briefly  as  possible. 
When  your  father  came  from  India,  and  made 
that  memorable  visit  to  my  father,  which  has 
cost  us  both  so  dear,  Chetwynde  was  covered 
with  mortgages  to  the  extent  of  sixty  thousand 
pounds.  Your  father  made  an  unholy  bargain 
with  mine,  and  in  order  to  secure  a  protector  for 
yon,  he  gave  to  my  father  the  money  which  was 
needed  to  disencumber  the  estate.  It  was,  in 
fact,  your  dowry,  advanced  beforehand. 

"The  principals  in  that  ill-omened  arrange- 
ment are  both  dead.  I  am  no  longer  a  boy,  but 
a  man  ;  the  last  of  my  line,  with  no  one  to  con- 
sider but  myself.  An  atrocious  wrong  has  been 
done,  unintentionally,  to  me,  and  also  to  you. 
That  wrong  I  intend  to  undo,  as  far  as  possible. 
I  have  long  ago  decided  upon  the  way.  I  intend 
to  give  back  to  you  this  dowry  money  ;  and  to  do 
so  I  will  break  the  entail,  sell  Chetwynde,  and 
let  it  go  to  the  hands  of  strangers.  My  ancient 
line  ends  in  me.  Be  it  so.  I  have  borne  so 
many  bitter  griefs  that  I  can  huiv  this  with  resig- 
nation. Never  again  shall  you.  Lady  Chet- 
wynde, have  the  power  of  flinging  at  me  that 
taunt  which  you  have  so  often  flung.  You  shall 
have  your  money  back,  to  the  last  farthing,  and 
with  interest  for  the  whole  time  since  its  ad- 
vance. In  this  way  1  can  also  best  keep  my  vow 
to  General  Pomeroy  ;  for  the  only  mode  by  which 
I  can  secure  your  happiness  is  to  yield  the  care 
of  it  into  your  own  hands. 

"  For  the  present  you  will  have  Chetwynde 
Castle  to  live  in  until  its  sale.  Every  thing  hero 
seems  quite  adapted  to  make  you  happy.  You 
seem  to  have  appropriated  it  quite  to  yourself. 
I  can  not  find  one  of  those  faithful  old  domestics 
with  whom  my  boyhood  was  passed.  You  have 
surrounded  yourself  with  your  own  servants. 
Until  your  money  is  paid  you  will  be  quite  at 
liberty  to  live  here,  or  at  Pomeroy  Court,  which- 
ever you  prefer.  Both  are  yours  now,  the  Castle 
as  much  as  I'omeroy  Court,  as  you  remarked, 
with  your  usual  delicacy,  in  your  last  letter,  since 
they  both  represent  your  own  money. 


126 


TIIK  CRYPTOGRAM. 


m 


"  And  now,"  said  Lord  Chetwynde,  in  contilu- 
fiion,  "we  understand  one  another.  'Phe  time  for 
taunts  and  sneers,  for  you,  is  over.  Any  letters 
liereafter  that  may  come  to  me  in  your  hand- 
writing will  bo  returned  unopened.  The  one 
aim  of  my  life  hereafter  shall  be  to  undo,  ns  far 
us  jjossible,  the  wrong  done  to  us  both  by  our 
jiarents.  That  can  never  be  all  undone ;  but,  at 
any  rate,  you  may  be  absolutely  certain  that 
you  will  get  back  every  penny  of  the  money 
which  is  so  precious  to  you,  with  interest.  As 
to  my  visit  here,  do  not  let  it  disturb  you  for 
one  moment.  I  have  no  intention  of  malving  a 
scene  for  the  benefit  of  your  gaping  servants. 
My  business  now  is  solely  to  see  about  my  fa- 
ther's papers,  to  examine  them,  and  take  away 
with  me  those  that  are  of  immediate  use.  While 
I  am  iiere  we  will  meet  at  the  same  table,  and 
will  be  l)ound  by  the  laws  of  ordinary  courtesy. 
At  all  other  times  we  need  not  be  conscious  of 
one  another's  existence.  I  trust  that  you  will 
sec  the  necessity  of  avoiding  any  open  demon- 
strations of  hatred,  or  even  dislike.  Let  your 
feelings  be  confined  to  yourself.  Lady  Chet- 
wynde; and  do  not  make  them  known  to  the 
servants,  if  you  can  ])ossibly  help  it." 

Lord  Chetwynde  seemed  to  have  ended ;  for 
he  arose  and  sauntered  up  to  the  T'ortrait,  wiiich 
he  regarded  for  some  time  witli  (i.tcd  attention, 
and  aj)peared  to  lose  himself  in  his  thougiits. 
During  the  remarks  which  he  had  l)eeii  making 
Hilda  had  sat  looking  at  the  floor.  llniil)le  to 
encounter  tlie  stern  gaze  of  the  man  whom  she 
felt  to  be  her  master,  she  had  listened  in  si- 
lence, with  downcast  eyes.  Tiiere  was  nothing 
for  her  to  say.  (She  therefore  did  the  very  best 
thing  that  she  could  do  under  the  circumstances 
— she  said  nothing.  Nor  did  she  say  any  thing 
when  he  had  ended.  She  saw  him  absorb  him- 
self in  regarding  his  own  jjortrait,  and  appar- 
ently lose  himself  in  his  recollections  of  the  past. 
Of  her  he  seemed  to  have  now  no  consciousness. 
She. sat  looking  at  him,  as  his  side  face  was  turn- 
ed toward  lier,  and  liis  eyes  fixed  on  the  pic- 
ture. The  noble  profile,  with  its  clear-cut  feat- 
ures, showed  much  of  the  expression  of  the 
face  —  an  expression  which  was  stern,  yet  sad 
and  softened — that  face  which,  just  before,  had 
been  before  her  eyes  frowning,  wrathful,  clothed 
with  consuming  t^rors — a  face  upon  which  she 
conld  not  look,  Mt  which  now  was  all  mourn- 
ful and  sorrowfid.  And  now,  as  she  gazed,  the 
hard  rigidity  of  her  beautiful  features  relaxed, 
the  sharp  glitter  of  her  dark  eyes  died  out, 
their  stony  lustre  gave  place  to  a  soft  light, 
which  beamed  upon  him  with  wonder,  with 
timid  awe — with  something  which,  in  any  other 
woman,  would  have  looked  like  tenderness.  She 
had  not  been  prepared  for  one  like  this.  In  her 
former  ideas  of  him  he  had  been  this  boy  of 
the  portrait,  with  his  boyish  enthusiasm,  and 
his  warm,  innocent  temperament.  This  idea 
she  hud  reliiupiished,  and  hud  known  that  he 
had  changed  during  the  years  into  the  heroic 
soldier  and  the  calm  judge.  .  She  had  tried  to 
familiarize  herself  with  this  new  idea,  and  had 
succeeded  in  doing  so  to  a  certain  extent.  But, 
after  all,  the  reality  hud  been  too  much  for  her. 
She  had  not  been  prepared  for  one  like  this,  nor 
for  such  an  ett'ect  as  the  sight  of  him  had  pro- 
duced. At  this  first  interview  he  had  overpow- 
ered her  utterly,  and  she  had  sat  dumb  and  mo- 


tionless liefore  him.  All  the  sneering  speeches 
which  she  had  i)repared  in  anticipation  of  the 
meeting  were  useless.  She  found  no  place  for 
them.  Hut  there  was  one  result  to  this  inter- 
view which  affected  her  still  more  dee])ly  than 
this  discovery  of  his  moral  superiority.  The  one 
great  danger  which  she  hud  always  feared  had 
jjassed  away.  She  no  h)nger  had  that  drcuil 
fear  of  discovery  which  hitherto  had  harassed 
her;  but  in  the  place  of  this  there  suddenly 
arose  another  fear  —  a  fear  which  seemed  as 
terrible  as  the  other,  which  darkened  over  her 
during  the  course  of  that  scene  till  its  close,  and 
afterward  —  such  an  evil  as  she  never  before 
could  have  thought  herself  capable  of  dread- 
ing, yet  one  which  she  had  brought  upon  her- 
self. 

What  was  that? 

His  contemi)t — his  hate — his  abhorrence — this 
was  the  thing  which  now  seemed  so  terrible  to  her. 
For  in  the  course  of  tliat  interview  a  sudden 
change  had  come  over  all  her  feelings.     In  spite 
of  her  later  judgment  about  him,  wliich  she  had 
expressed  to  Gualtier,  there  had  been  in  her 
mind  a  half  contemjit  for  the  man  whom  she 
hud  once  judged  of  by  his  picture  only,  and 
whom  she  recollected  us  the  weak  agent  in  a 
forced  marriage.     That  paragraph  in  the  Indian 
I  ])oper  hail  certainly  caused  a  great  change  to 
:  take  place  in  her  estimate   of  his   character; 
but,  in  spite  of  this,  the  old  contemjit  still  ve- 
i  nuiined,  and  she  had  I'eckoned  upon  finding  be- 
1  neath  the  nioture  man,  brave  though  he  was, 
■  and  even  wise  though  he  might  be,  much  of 
]  that  boy  whom  she  hud  desjiised.     But  all  this 
])assed  away  as  a  dream,  out  of  which  she  hud 
a  rude  awakening.     She  awoke  suddenly  to  the 
full  reality,  to  find  him  a  strong,  stern,  proud 
man,  to  whom  her  own  strength  was  as  weak- 
ness.    While  he  uttered  his  grand  maledictions 
against  her  he  seemed  to  her  like  a  god.     He 
was  a  mighty  being,  to  whom  she  looked  u]) 
from  the  dej)ths  of  her  soul,  half  in  fear,  luilf  in 
adoration.     In  her  weakness  .she  admired  liis 
strength ;  and  in  her  wily  and  tortuous  subtlety 
she  worshiped  this  straightforward  and  ujiright 
gentleman,  who  scorned  craft  and  cunning,  and 
who  hud  sat  in  stern  judgment  upon  hei',   to 
make  known  to  her  Mx  will. 

For  some  time  she  sat  looking  at  him  as  he 
stood,  with  her  whole  nature  shaken  by  these 
new,  these  unparalleled  emotions,  till,  finally, 
with  a  start,  she  came  to  herself,  and,  rising 
slowly,  she  glided  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIL 

AN   EFFOKT   AT  CONCILIATION. 

Lord  Chetwyndk's  occupations  kept  him  for 
the  greater  part  of  his  time  in  his  father's  library, 
where  he  busied  himself  in  examining  papers. 
Many  of  these  he  read  and  restored  to  their 
places,  but  some  he  put  aside,  in  order  to  take 
them  with  him.  Of  the  new  steward  he  took  no 
notice  whatever.  He  considered  the  dismissal 
of  the  old  one  and  the  appointment  of  Gualtier 
one  of  those  abominable  acts  which  were  con- 
sistent with  all  the  other  acts  of  that  woman  whom 
he  supposed  to  be  his  wife.  Besides,  the  papers 
which  he  sought  had  reference  to  the  past,  and 


f 


,m^  fl.«W|iu    ^'JWii,^      I'L"' 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


127 


'•he   sought   out   his   FATHKu's   GUAVE,  and   SToiiD   MUSING   THEUE." 


had  no  connection  with  the  affairs  of  the  pres- 
ent. In  the  intervals  of  his  occupation  he  used 
to  go  about  the  grounds,  visiting  every  one  of 
those  well-known  plates  which  were  associated 
with  his  chihlhood  and  boyhood.  He  sought 
out  his  father's  grave,  and  stood  musing  there 
with  feelings  which  were  made  up  of  sadness, 
mingled  with  something  like  reproach  for  the 
fearful  mistake  which  his  fatlier  had  made  in  the 
allotment  of  the  son's  destiny.  True,  he  had 
been  one  of  the  consenting  parties ;  but  when  he 
first  gave  that  consent  he  was  little  more  than  a 
boy,  and  not  at  all  cnp.ible  of  comprehending 
the  full  meaning  of  such  an  engagement.  His 
father  had  ever  since  solemnly  held  him  to  it, 


and  had  appealed  to  his  sense  of  honor  in  order 
to  make  him  faithful.  But  now  the  father  was 
dead,  the  son  was  a  mature  man,  tried  in  a  thou- 
sand scenes  of  diflBcnlty  and  danger — one  who 
had  learned  to  think  for  himself,  who  had  gained 
his  manhood  by  a  life  of  storms,  in  which  of  late 
there  had  been  crowded  countless  events,  each 
of  which  had  had  their  weight  in  the  develop- 
ment of  his  character.  They  had  left  him  a 
calm,  strong,  resolute  man — a  man  of  thought 
and  of  action — a  graduate  of  the  school  of  In- 
dian affairs — a  school  which,  in  times  that  tried 
men's  souls,  never  failed  to  supply  men  who  v.ere 
equal  to  every  emergency. 

At  the  very  outset  he  had  found  out  the  condi- 


^ 


% 


128 


THK  CRYPTOOKAM. 


w  % 


lion  of  Mrs.  Hart.  The  n\g\n  of  hiH  loved  nurHo, 
thus  proHtrated,  tilled  him  with  Kriuf  'I'hu  huiine- 
kuepcr  who  now  Httetidud  her  knew  nothing  what- 
ever of  the  cauHe  of  her  ])ro8trHtion.  Lord  (-'hot- 
wynilo  (lid  not  deign  to  mmR  any  (|U0Mtiong  of 
Hilda;  but  in  hii«  anxiety  to  learn  about  Mrs. 
Hart,  ho  Hought  out  the  doctor  who  had  attend- 
ed his  father,  and  from  him  he  learned  that  Mrs. 
Hart's  illness  had  been  caused  by  her  anxiety 
alwut  the  Karl.  The  knowledge  of  this  increased, 
if  possible,  his  own  care.  He  made  the-closcst ' 
inquiry  as  to  the  way  in  which  she  was  treated,  [ 
engaged  the  doctor  to  visit  her,  and  doulded  the 
housekeeper's  salary  on  condition  that  she  would 
bo  attentive  to  his  beloved  nurse.  These  meas- 
ures were  attended  witii  good  results,  for  under 
this  increased  care  Mrs.  Hart  began  to  show 
Bigns  of  improvement.  Whether  she  would  ever 
again  be  conscious  was  yet  a  (piesiion.  The 
doctor  considered  her  mind  to  be  irretrievably 
ntt'ected. 

Meanwhile,  throughout  all  these  days,  Hilda's 
mind  was  engrossed  with  the  change  which  had 
come  over  her — a  change  so  startling  and  so 
unexpected  that  it  foimd  her  totally  unjirepared 
to  deal  with  it.  They  met  every  day  at  the  din- 
ner-table, and  at  no  other  times.  Here  Lord 
Chetwynde  treated  her  with  scrupulous  courtesy ; 
yet  beyond  the  extreme  limits  of  that  courtesy 
she  found  it  impossible  to  advance.  Hilda's 
manner  was  most  humble  and  conciliatory.  She 
who  all  her  life  had  felt  defiant  of  others,  or 
worse,  now  found  herself  enthralled  and  subdued 
by  the  spell  of  this  man's  presence.  Her  wili- 
noss,  her  stealthiness,  her  constant  self-control, 
were  all  lost  and  forgotten.  She  had  now  to 
struggle  incessantly  against  that  new  tenderness 
which  had  .s;)rung  up  unl»idden  within  her.  She 
caught  herself  looking  forward  wistfully  every 
day  to  the  time  when  she  could  meet  him  at  the 
table  and  hear  his  voice,  which,  even  in  its  cold, 
constrained  tones,  was  enough  for  her  happiness. 
It  was  in  vain  that  she  reproached  and  even 
cursed  herself  for  her  weakness.  The  weakness 
none  the  less  existed ;  and  all  her  life  seemed 
now  to  centre  around  this  man,  who  hated  her. 
Into  a  position  like  this  she  had  never  imagined 
that  she  could  possibly  be  brought.  All  her  cun- 
ning and  all  her  resources  were  useless  here. 
This  man  seemed  so  completely  beyond  her  con- 
trol that  any  effort  to  win  him  to  her  seemed 
useless.  He  believed  her  to  bo  his  wife,  he  be- 
lieved himself  bound  by  honor  to  secure  her  hap- 
])iness,  and  yet  his  abhorrence  of  her  was  so 
.strong  that  he  never  made  any  effort  to  gain  her 
for  himself.  Now  Hilda  saw  with  bitterness 
tliat  she  had  gone  too  far,  and  that  her  plans 
and  her  plots  were  recoiling  upon  her  own  head. 
They  had  been  too  successful.  The  sin  of  Lord 
Chetwynde's  wife  had  in  his  eyes  proved  unpar- 
donable. 

Hilda's  whole  life  now  became  a  series  of  al- 
ternate struggles  against  her  own  heart,  and  long- 
ings after  another  who  was  worse  than  indiffer- 
ent to  her.  Her  own  miserable  weakness,  so 
unexpected,  and  yet  so  complete  and  hopeless, 
filled  her  at  once  with  anger  and  dismay.  To 
find  all  her  thoughts  both  by  day  and  night  filled 
with  this  one  image  was  at  once  mortifying  and 
terrible.  The  very  intensity  of  her  feelings, 
which  would  not  stop  short  at  death  itself  to 
gain  their  object,  now  made  her  own  sufferings 


all  the  greater.  Every  thing  else  was  forgotten 
excejit  this  one  absorbing  desire  ;  and  lier  com- 
plicated schemes  and  far-reaching  plans  were 
thrust  away.  They  had  lost  their  interest.  I  lence- 
forth  all  were  reduced  to  one  thought — how  to 
gain  Lord  ( 'hetwynde  to  herself. 

As  long  as  ho  staid,  soniuthing  like  hopo  re- 
maiiutd ;  but  when  he  would  leave,  what  hopo 
could  there  be?  Would  ho  not  leave  her  for- 
ever? Was  not  this  the  strongest  desire  of  his 
heart?  Had  he  not  said  so?  Kvery  day  she 
watched,  with  a  certain  chilling  fear  at  her  heart, 
to  800  if  there  were  signs  of  his  departure.  As 
day  succeeded  to  day,  however,  and  she  found 
him  still  rMnaining,  she  began  to  hope  that  ho 
might  possibly  have  relented  somewhat,  and  that 
the  sentence  which  he  had  s])oken  to  her  might 
have  become  modified  by  time  and  further  ob- 
servation of  her. 

So  at  the  dinner-table  she  used  to  sit,  looking 
at  him,  when  his  eyes  were  turned  away,  with 
her  earnest,  devouring  gaze,  which,  as  soon  as 
he  would  look  v.  her  again,  was  turned  (piickly 
away  with  the  ti  nidity  of  a  young  bashful  child. 
Such  is  the  tenderness  of  love  that  Hilda,  who 
formerly  shrank  at  nothing,  no>v  shrank  away 
from  the  gaze  of  thi'  man.  Once,  by  a  great  ef- 
fort, as  he  entered  the  dining-room  she  held  out 
her  haiul  to  greet  him.  Lord  Chetwynde,  how- 
ever, did  not  seem  to  see  it,  for  he  greeted  her 
with  his  usual  distant  civility,  and  treated  her 
as  before.  Onco  more  she  tried  this,  and  yet 
once  again,  but  with  the  same  result ;  and  it  was 
then  that  she  knew  that  Lord  Chetwynde  refused 
to  take  her  hand  It  was  not  oversight — it  was 
a  deliberate  purf.  .)se.  At  another  time  it  would 
have  seemed  an  insult  which  would  have  filled 
her  with  rage ;  now  it  seemed  a  slight  which 
filled  her  with  grief.  So  humiliated  had  she  be- 
come, and  so  completely  subdued  by  this  man, 
that  oven  this  slight  was  not  enough,  but  she  still 
planned  vague  ways  of  winning  his  attention  to 
her,  and  of  gaining  from  him  something  nioro 
than  a  remark  about  the  weather  or  about  the 
dishes. 

At  length  one  day  she  foimed  a  resolution, 
which,  after  much  hesitation,  she  carried  out. 
She  was  determined  to  make  one  bold  effort, 
whatever  tlio  result  might  be.  It  was  at  their 
usual  place  of  meeting-rthe  dinner-table. 

"  My  lord,"  said  she,  with  a  tremulous  vofce, 
"I  wish  to  have  an  interview  with  you.  Can 
you  spare  me  the  time  this  evening?" 

She  looked  a't  him  earnestly,  with  mute  in- 
quiry. Lord  Chetwynde  regarded  her  in  some 
surf)rise.  He  saw  her  eyes  fixed  u))on  him  with 
a  timid  entreaty,  while  her  face  grew  pale  with 
suspense.  Her  breathing  was  rajiid  from  the  ag- 
itation that  overcame  her. 

"  I  had  some  business  this  evening,"  said  Lord 
Chetwynde,  coldly,  "  but  as  you  wish  an  inter- 
view, I  am  at  your  service." 

"At  what  time,  my  lord?" 

"  At  nine, "  said  Lord  Chetwynde. 

Nine  o'clock  came,  and  Hilda  was  in  the 
morning-room,  which  she  had  mentioned  as  the 
j)lace  of  meeting,  and  Lord  Chetwynde  came 
there  punctually.  She  was  sitting  near  the  win- 
dow. Her  pale  face,  her  rich  black  locks  ar- 
ranged in  voluminous  masses  about  her  head, 
her  dark  penetrating  eyes,  her  slender  and  grace- 
ful figure,  all  conspired  to  make  Hilda  beautiful 


THE  CUYl'TOGRAM. 


129 


and  nttractivo  In  a  raro  degree.  Added  to  thin 
thuro  was  a  nt;rtuin  entreaty  on  lier  fiicu  uh  it  wuh 
turned  townrd  liini,  and  a  Hoft,  timid  liiHtro  in 
her  even  whir.h  mif;lit  liavo  Hit'ected  any  other 
man.  She  nme  aH  Lord  (.,'hetwynde  entered, 
and  l)owed  lier  hcuutifid  head,  while  her  grace- 
ful arniH,  and  itmall,  delicately  Hhaped  iiands  hung 
down  at  her  Hide. 

Lord  Clietwynde  howed  in  Hilcnce. 
"My  lord,"  Haid  Hilda,  in  a  voice  which  was 
tremulous  from  an  uncontrollable  emotion,  "I 
wished  to  see  you  here.  We  met  here  once  be- 
fore ;  you  Haid  what  you  wished  ;  I  made  no  re- 
ply ;  I  had  nothing  to  say ;  I  felt  your  rejjroach- 
os  ;  they  were  in  some  degree  junt  and  well-mer- 
ited ;  but  1  might  have  said  something— only  I 
was  timid  and  nervous,  and  you  frightened  me." 
Here  Hilda  paused,  and  drew  a  long  breath. 
Her  emotion  nearly  choked  her,  but  the  sound 
of  her  own  voice  sustained  her,  and,  making  an 
effort,  she  went  on : 

"I  have  nothing  to  say  in  defense  of  my  con- 
duct. It  has  made  you  hate  me.  Your  hate  is 
too  evident.  My  thoughtless  spite  has  turned 
hack  upon  myself.  I  would  willingly  humiliate 
myself  now  if  I  thought  that  it  would  aii'ect  you 
or  conciliate  you.  I  would  acknowledge  any  fol- 
ly of  mine  if  I  thought  that  you  could  be  brought 
to  look  upon  me  with  leniency.  What  I  did  was 
the  act  of  a  thoughtless  girl,  angry  at  finding  her- 
self chained  up  for  life,  spiteful  she  knew  not 
why.  I  hud  only  seen  you  for  a  moment,  and 
did  not  know  you.  I  was  mad.  I  was  guilty ; 
l)ut  still  it  is  a  thing  that  may  be  considered 
ns  not  altogether  unnatural  under  the  circum- 
stances. And,  after  all,  it  was  not  sincere — it 
was  pique,  it  was  thoughtlessness — it  was  not 
that  deep-seated  malice  which  you  have  laid  to 
my  charge,  ('an  you  not  think  of  this?  Can 
you  not  imagine  what  may  have  been  the  feel- 
ings of  a  wild,  spoiled,  untutored  girl,  one  who 
was  little  better  than  a  child,  one  who  found  her- 
self shackled  she  knew  not  how,  and  who  chafed 
at  all  restraint  ?  Can  j'ou  not  understand,  or  at 
least  imagine,  such  a  case  as  this,  and  believe 
that  the  one  who  once  sinned  ha  now  repented, 
and  asks  with  tears  for  your  forgiveness?" 

Tears?  Yes,  tears  were  in  the  eyes  of  this 
singular  girl,  this  girl  whose  nature  was  so  made 
up  of  strength  and  weakness.  Her  eyes  were 
suff'used  with  tears  as  she  looked  at  Lord  Chet- 
wynde,  and  finally,  as  she  ceased,  she  buried  her 
face  in  her  hands  and  sobbed  aloud. 

Now,  nothing  in  nature  so  moves  a  man  as  a 
woman's  tears.  If  the  woman  be  beautiful,  and 
if  she  loves  the  man  to  whom  she  speaks,  they 
are  irresistible.  And  here  the  woman  was  beau- 
tiful, and  her  love  for  the  man  whom  she  was 
addressing  was  evident  in  her  face  and  in  the 
tones  of  her  voice.  Yet  Lord  Chetwynde  sat 
unmoved.  Nothing  in  his  face  or  in  his  eyes 
gave  indications  of  any  response  on  his  part. 
Nothing  whatever  showed  that  any  thing  like  soft 
pity  or  tender  consideration  had  modified  the 
severity  of  his  purpose  or  the  sternness  of  his 
fixed  resolve.  Yet  Lord  Chetwynde  by  nature 
was  not  hard-hearted,  and  Hilda  well  knew  this.. 
In  the  years  which  she  had  spent  at  the  Castle 
she  had  heard  from  every  quarter — from  the  Earl, 
from  Mrs.  Hart,  and  from  the  servants — tales 
without  number  about  his  generosity,  his  self-de- 
nial, his  kindlineas,  and  tender  consideratioa  for 


the  feelingii  of  othen.  Rosldon  thi.i,  he  had  re- 
ceived from  his  father  along  with  that  chivalr  it 
nature  the  lofty  sentiments  of  a  knight-errant, 
and  in  his  boyish  days  had  always  been  ready  to 
espouse  the  cause  of  any  one  in  distreNS  with  the 
warmest  cnthuHiasm.  In  Hilda's  present  atti- 
tude, in  her  appearance,  in  her  wonts,  and  above 
all  in  her  tears,  there  was  every  thing  that  would 
move  such  a  nature  to  its  inmost  deinlis.  Had  he 
ever  seen  any  one  at  once  so  beautiful  aiul  so  de- 
spairing; and  one,  too,  whose  whole  despair  arose 
from  her  feelings  for  him?  Even  his  recollec- 
tions of  former  disdain  might  lose  their  liittcr- 
ness  in  the  preseiu'e  of  such  utter  huniilintion. 
such  total  self-immolation  as  this.  His  nature 
could  not  have  changed,  for  the  Indian  pa])or  al- 
luded to  his  "  genial"  character,  and  his  "  heroic 
qualities."  Ho  must  be  still  the  same.  What, 
then,  could  there  be  which  would  lie  powerful 
enough  to  harden  his  feelings  and  steel  his  heart 
against  such  a  woeful  and  piteous  sight  as  that 
which  was  now  exhibited  to  him  ?  All  these 
things  Hilda  thought  as  she  made  her  appeal,  and 
broke  down  so  comjiletely  at  its  close ;  these 
things,  too,  she  thought  as  the  tears  streamed 
from  her  eyes,  and  as  her  frame  was  shaken  by 
emotion. 

I>ord  Chetwynde  sat  looking  at  her  in  silence 
for  a  long  time.  No  trace  whatever  of  commis- 
eration a[)iieared  upon  his  face;  but  he  conf^'i- 
ued  as  stern,  as  cold,  and  as  unmoved,  as  in  th,  ,t 
first  interview  when  he  had  told  her  how  he 
hated  her.  Bitter  indeed  must  that  hate  have 
been  which  should  so  crush  out  all  those  natural 
impulses  of  generosity  which  belonged  to  him; 
bitter  must  the  hate  have  been ;  and  bitter  too 
must  have  been  the  whole  of  his  past  experience 
in  connection  with  this  woman,  which  could  end 
in  such  pitiless  relentlessness. 

At  length  ho  answered  her.  His  tone  was 
calm,  cool,  and  impassive,  like  his  face ;  show- 
ing not  a  trace  of  any  change  from  that  tone  in 
which  he  always  addressed  her;  and  making 
known  to  her,  as  she  sat  with  her  face  burietl  in 
her  hands,  that  whatever  hopes  she  had  indulged 
in  during  his  silence,  those  hopes  were  altogether 
vain. 

"Lady  Chetwynde,"  he  began,  " all  that  you 
have  just  said  I  have  thought  over  long  ago,  from 
beginning  to  end.  It  has  all  been  in  my  mind 
for  years.  In  India  there  were  always  hours 
when  the  day's  duties  were  over,  and  the  mind 
would  turn  to  its  own  private  and  secret  thoughts. 
From  the  very  firat,  you.  Lady  Chetwynde,  were 
naturally  the  subject  of  those  thoughts  to  a  great 
degree.  That  marriage  scene  was  too  memora- 
ble to  he  soon  forgotten,  and  the  revelation  of 
your  character,  which  I  then  had,  was  the  first 
thing  which  showed  me  the  full  weight  of  the 
obligation  which  1  had  so  thoughtlessly  accepted. 
Most  bitterly  I  lamented,  on  my  voyage  out,  that 
I  had  not  contrived  some  plan  to  evade  so  hasty 
a  fulfillment  of  my  boyish  promise,  and  that  1 
had  not  satisfied  the  General  in  some  way  which 
would  not  have  involved  such  a  scene.  But  I 
could  not  recall  the  past,  and  I  felt  bound  by  my 
father's  engagement.  As  to  yourself,  I  assure 
you  that  in  spite  of  your  malice,  and  your  iasidts 
I  felt  most  considerately  toward  you.  I  pitied 
you  for  being,  like  myself,  the  unwilling;  victim 
of  a  father's  promise  and  of  a  sick  man's  whim, 
and  learned  to  make  allowance  for  ewiy  word 


130 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


and  action  of  yours  at  that  time.  Not  one  of 
those  words  or  actions  had  the  smallest  effect  in 
imbittering  my  mind  toward  you.  Not  one  of 
tho3e  words  which  yon  have  just  uttered  has  sug- 
gested an  idea  which  I  have  not  long  ago  consid- 
ered, and  pondered  over  in  secret,  in  silence, 
and  in  sorrow.  I  made  a  large  allowance  also 
for  that  hate  which  you  must  have  felt  toward 
one  who  came  to  you  as  I  did,  in  so  odious  a 
character,  to  violate,  as  I  did,  the  sanctities  of 
death  by  the  mockery  of  a  hideous  marriage. 
All  this — all  this  has  been  in  ray  mind,  and  no- 
thing that  you  can  say  is  able  in  any  way  to 
bring  any  new  idea  to  me.  There  are  other 
things  far  deeper  and  far  more  lasting  than  this, 
which  can  not  be  answered,  or  excused,  or  ex- 
plained away  —  the  long  persistent  expressions 
of  unchanging  hate." 

Lore'.  Chetwynde  was  silent.  Hilda  had  heard 
all  this  without  moving  or  raising  her  head. 
Ev  ity  word  was  ruin  to  her  hopes.  But  she 
still  hoped  against  hope,  and  now,  since  she  had 
an  opportunity  to  speak,  she  still  tried  to  move 
this  obdurate  h^art. 

"Hate!"  she  exclaimed,  catching  at  his  last 
word — "hate!  what  is  that?  the  fitful,  spiteful 
feeling  arising  out  of  the  recollection  of  one  mis- 
erable scene — or  perhaps  out  of  the  madness  of 
anger  at  a  forced  marriage.  What  is  it  ?  One 
kind  word  can  dispel  it." 

As  she  said  this  she  did  not  look  up.  Her 
face  was  buried  in  her  hands.  Her  tone  was 
half  despairing,  half  imploring,  and  broken  by 
emotion. 

"True,"  said  Lord  Chetwj-nde.  "All  that 
I  have  thought  of,  and  I  used  to  console  myself 
with  that.  I  used  to  say  to  myself,  '  When  we 
meet  again  it  will  be  different.  When  she  knows 
me  she  can  not  hate  me.' " 

"You  were  right,"  faltered  Hilda,  with  a  sob 
which  was  almost  a  groan.  "And  what  then? 
Say  —  was  it  a  wonder  that  I  should  have  felt 
hate  ?  Was  there  ever  any  one  so  tried  as  I  was  ? 
My  father  was  my  only  friend.  He  was  father 
and  mother  and  all  the  world  to  me.  He  was 
brought  home  one  day  suddenly,  injured  by  a 
frightful  accident,  and  dying.  At  that  unpar- 
alleled moment  I  was  ordered  to  prepare  for  mar- 
riage. Half  crazed  with  anxiety  and  sorrow, 
and  anticipating  the  very  worst — at  such  a  time 
death  itself  would  have  been  preferable  to  that 
ceremony.  But  all  my  feelings  were  outraged, 
and  I  was  dragged  down  to  that  horrible  scene. 
Cnn  ynn  not  see  what  effect  the  recollection  of  this 
might  afterward  have  ?  Can  you  not  once  again 
make  allowances,  and  think  those  thoughts  which 
j'ou  used  to  think?  Can  you  not  still  see  that 
you  were  right  in  supposing  that  when  we  might 
meet  all  would  be  ditterent,  and  that  she  who 
might  once  have  known  you  could  not  hate 
you?" 

"No,"  said  Lord  Chetwynde,  coldly  and  se- 
verely. 

Hilda  raised  her  head,  and  looked  at  him  with 
mute  inquiry. 

"  I  will  explain,"  said  Lord  Chetwynde.  "  I 
have  already  said  all  tl-at  I  ought  to  say :  but 
you  force  me  to  say  more,  though  I  am  unwill- 
ing. Yonr  letters,  Lady  Chetwynde,  were  the 
things  which  quelled  and  finally  killed  all  kind- 
ly ffeelings." 

"Letters!"  burst  in  Hilda,  with  eager  vehe- 


mence. "They  were  the  letters  of  a  hot-tempered 
girl,  blinded  by  pique  and  self-conceit,  and  care- 
lessly indulging  in  a  foolish  spite  which  in  her 
huart  she  did  not  seriously  feel. " 

"Pardon  me,"  said  Lord  Chetwynde,  with 
cold  politeness,  "  I  think  you  are  forgetting  the 
circumstances  under  which  they  were  written — 
for  this  must  be  considered  as  well  as  the  nature 
of  the  compositions  themselves.  They  were  the 
letters  of  one  whom  my  father  loved,  and  of 
whom  he  always  spoke  in  the  tenderest  language, 
but  who  yet  was  so  faithless  to  him  that  she 
never  ceased  to  taunt  me  with  what  she  called 
our  baseness.  She  never  spared  the  old  man 
who  loved  her.  For  months  and  for  years 
these  letters  came.  It  was  something  more  than 
pique,  something  more  than  self-conceit  or  spite, 
which  lay  at  the  bottom  of  such  long-continued 
insults.  The  worst  feature  about  them  was  their 
cold-blooded  cruelty.  Nothing  in  my  circum- 
stances or  condition  could  prevent  tiiis — not  even 
that  long  agony  before  Delhi" — added  Lord  Chet- 
wynde, in  tones  filled  with  a  deeper  indignation — 
"  when  I,  lost  behind  the  smoke  and  cloud  and 
darkness  of  the  great  struggle,  was  unable  to 
write  for  a  long  time ;  and,  finally,  w£s  able  to 
give  my  account  of  the  assault  and  the  triumph. 
Not  even  that  could  change  the  course  of  the 
insults  which  were  so  freely  heaped  upon  me. 
And  yet  it  would  have  been  easy  to  avoid  all 
this.  Why  write  at  all  ?  There  was  no  heavy 
necessity  laid  upon  you.  That  was  the  question 
which  I  used  to  put  to  myself.  But  you  per- 
sisted in  writing,  and  in  sending  to  me  over  the 
seas,  with  diabolical  pertinacity,  those  hideous 
letters  in  which  every  word  was  a  stab." 

While  Lord  Chetwynde  had  been  speaking 
Hilda  sat  looking  at  him,  and  meeting  his  stern 
glance  with  a  look  which  would  have  softened 
any  one  less  bitter.  Paler  and  paler  grew  her 
face,  and  her  hands  clutched  one  another  in 
tremulous  agitation,  which  showed  her  strong 
emotion. 

"Oh,  my  lord!"  she  cried,  as  he  ceased, 
"  can  you  not  have  mercy  ?  Think  of  that  black 
cloud,  that  came  down  over  my  young  life,  filling 
it  with  gloom  and  horror,  I  confess  that  you 
and  your  father  appeared  the  chief  agents ;  but 
I  learned  to  love  hitn,  and  then  all  my  bitterness 
turned  on  you — you,  who  seemed  to  be  so  pros- 
perous, so  brave,  and  so  honored.  It  was  you 
who  seemed  to  have  blighted  my  life,  and  so  I 
was  animated  by  a  desire  to  make  you  feel  some- 
thing of  what  I  had  felt.  My  disposition  is  fiery 
and  impetuous;  my  father's  training  made  it 
worse.  I  did  not  know  you ;  I  only  felt  spite 
against  you,  and  thus  I  wrote  those  fatal  letters. 
I  thought  that  you  could  have  prevented  thai 
marriage  if  you  had  wished,  and  therefore  could 
never  feel  any  thing  but  animosity.  But  »iow 
the  sorrows  through  which  I  have  passed  have 
changed  me,  and  you  yourself  have  made  me  see 
how  mad  was  my  action.  But  oh,  my  lord, 
believe  me,  it  was  not  deliberate,  it  was  hasty 
passion  !  and  now  I  would  be  willing  to  wipe  out 
every  word  in  those  hateful  letters  with  my 
heart's  blood ! " 

Hilda's  voice  was  low  but  impassioned,  with  n 
certain  burning  fervor  of  entreaty ;  her  words 
had  become  words  almost  of  prayer,  so  deep  was 
her  humiliation.  Her  face  was  turned  toward 
him  with  an  imploring  expression,  and  her  eyes 


;wTi,.f  w«Tliw,iin  « '  ."■'f/»v'^w«)","j^i«wwiw*fl^Tw™np^"mp^ 


i|i^.yjp 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM, 


131 


were  fixed  on  his  in  what  seemed  an  agony  of 
suspense.  But  not  even  that  white  face,  with  its 
ashen  lips  and  its  anguish,  nor  those  eyes  with 
their  overflowing  tears,  nor  that  voice  with  its 
touching  pathos  of  woe,  availed  in  any  way  to 
call  up  any  response  of  pity  and  sympathy  in  the 
breast  of  Lord  Chetwynde. 

"  You  use  strong  language,  Lady  Chetwynde," 
said  he,  in  his  usual  tone.  "  You  forget  that  it 
is  you  yourself  who  have  transformed  ail  my  for- 
mer kindliness,  in  spite  of  myself,  into  bitterness 
and  gall.  You  forget,  above  all,  that  last  letter 
of  )'ours.  Y^ou  seem  to  show  an  emotion  which 
I  once  would  have  taken  as  real.  Pardon  me 
if  I  now  say  tk"'  I  consider  it  nothing  more  than 
consummate  acting.  You  speak  of  considera- 
tion. You  hint  at  mercy.  Listen,  Lady  Chet- 
wynde"— and  here  Lord  Chetwynde  raised  his 
right  hand  with  solemn  emphasis.  "  You  turned 
away  frf^rn  the  death-bed  of  my  father,  the  man 
who  loved  you  like  a  daughter,  to  write  to  me 
that  hideous  letter  which  you  wrote — that  letter, 
every  word  of  which  is  still  in  my  memory,  and 
rises  up  between  us  to  sunder  us  for  evermore. 
You  went  beyond  yourself.  To  have  spared  the 
living  was  not  needed  ;  but  it  was  the  misfortune 
of  your  nature  that  you  could  not  spare  the  dead. 
While  he  was,  perlmps,  yet  lying  cold  in  deatli 
near  you,  you  had  the  heart  to  write  to  me  bitter 
sneers  against  him.  Even  without  that  you  had 
(lone  enough  to  turn  me  from  you  always.  But 
wlien  I  read  that,  I  then  knew  most  thoroughly 
that  the  one  who  was  capable,  under  such  cir- 
cumstances, of  writing  thus  could  only  have  a 
mind  and  heart  irretrievably  bad — bad  and  cor- 
rupt and  base.  Never,  never,  never,  while  I 
live,  can  1  forget  the  utter  horror  with  which 
that  letter  filled  me ! " 

"  Oh,  my  God ! "  said  Hilda,  with  a  groan. 

Lord  Chetwynde  sat  stern  and  silent. 

"You  are  inflexible  in  your  cruelty,"  said 
Hilda  at  length,  as  she  made  one  last  and  almost 
hopeless  effort.  "I  have  done.  But  will  you 
not  ask  me  something  ?  Have  you  nothing  to 
ask  about  your  father  ?  lie  loved  me  as  a  daugh- 
ter. I  was  the  one  who  nursed  him  in  his  last 
illness,  and  heard  his  last  words.  His  dying 
eyes  were  fixed  on  me ! " 

As  Hilda  said  this  a  sharp  shudder  passed 
through  her. 

"  No,"  said  Lord  Chetwynde,  "  I  have  nothing 
to  ask — nothing  from  you  !  Your  last  letter  has 
quelled  all  desire.  I  would  rather  remain  in 
ignorance,  and  know  nothing  of  the  last  words 
of  him  whom  I  so  loved  than  ask  of  you." 

"He  called  me  his  daughter.  He  loved  me," 
said  Hilda,  in  a  broken  voice. 

"And  yet  you  were  capable  of  turning  away 
from  his  death-bed  and  writing  that  letter  to  his 
son.     You  did  it  coolly  and  remorselessly. " 

"  It  was  the  anguish  of  bereavement  and  de- 
spair." 

"  No ;  it  was  the  malignancy  of  the  Evil  One. 
Nothing  else  c<^uld  have  prompted  those  hideous 
sneers.  In  real  sorrow  sneering  is  the  last  thing 
that  one  thinks  of.  But  enough.  I  do  not  wish 
to  speak  i.i  this  way  to  a  lady.  Yet  to  you  I  can 
speak  in  no  other  way.     I  will  therefore  retire." 

And,  with  a  bow,  liOrd  Chetwynde  with- 
drew. 

Hilda  loi  ked  after  him,  as  he  left,  with  staring 
eyes,  and  with  a  face  as  pallid  as  that  of  a  corpse. 


She  rose  to  her  feet.    Her  hands  were  ch.nched 
tight. 

' '  He  loves  another, "  she  groaned ;  ' '  otherwise 
he  never,  never,  never  could  have  been  bo  piti- 
less!" 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

SETTING  THE   DOG  ON  THE   LIOn's  TRACK. 

A^TEu  this  failure  in  the  effort  to  come  to  an 
understanding  with  Lord  Chetwynde,  Hilda  sank 
into  despondency.  She  scarcely  knew  what  there 
was  to  be  done  when  such  an  appeal  as  this  had 
failed.  She  had  humbled  herself  in  the  dust  be- 
fore him — she  had  manifested  unmistakably  her 
love,  yet  he  had  disregarded  all.  After  this  what 
remained  ?  It  was  difficult  to  say.  Yet,  for  her- 
self, she  still  looked  forward  to  the  daily  meet- 
ing with  him :  glad  of  this,  since  fate  would  give 
her  nothing  better.  The  change  which  had  come 
over  her  was  not  one  which  could  be  noticed  by 
the  servants,  no  that  there  was  no  chance  of 
her  secret  bein?  discovered  by  them;  but  there 
was  another  at  Chetwynde  Castle  who  very  quick- 
ly discovered  all,  one  who  was  led  to  this  perhaps 
by  the  sympathy  of  his  own  feelings.  There  was 
that  secret  within  his  own  heart  which  made  him 
watchful  and  attentive  and  observant.  No  change 
in  her  face  and  manner,  however  slight,  could 
fail  to  be  noticed  by  this  man,  who  treasured  up 
every  varying  expression  of  hers  within  his  heart. 
And  this  change  which  had  come  over  her  was 
one  which  aff"ected  him  by  much  more  than  the 
mere  variation  of  features.  It  entered  into  his 
daily  life  and  disarranged  all  his  plans. 

Before  the  arrival  of  Lord  Chetwynde,  Gual- 
tier,  in  his  capacity  of  steward,  had  been  accus- 
tomed to  have  frequent  interviews  with  Hilda. 
Now  they  were  all  over.  Since  that  arrival  he 
had  not  spoken  to  her  once,  nor  had  he  once  got 
so  much  as  a  glance  of  her  eye.  At  first  he  ac- 
counted for  it  from  very  natural  causes.  He  at- 
tributed it  to  the  anxiety  which  she  felt  at  the 
presence  of  Lord  Chetwynde,  and  at  the  despe- 
rate part  which  she  had  to  play.  For  some  time 
this  seemed  sufficient  to  account  for  every  thing. 
But  afterward  he  learned  enough  to  make  him 
think  it  possible  that  there  were  other  causes.  He 
heard  the  gossip  of  the  servants'  hall,  and  from 
that  he  learned  that  it  was  the  common  opinion 
of  the  ser\'ai.*s  that  Lady  Chetwynde  was  very 
fond  of  Lord  (Chetwynde,  but  that  the  latter  was 
very  distant  and  reserved  in  his  manner  toward 
her.  This  started  him  on  a  new  track  for  con- 
jecture, and  he  soon  learned  and  saw  enough  to 
get  some  general  idea  of  the  truth.  Yet,  after 
all,  it  was  not  the  actual  truth  which  he  conjec- 
tured. His  conclusion  was  that  Hilda  was  play- 
ing a  deep  game  in  order  to  win  Lord  Chet- 
wynde's  affection  to  herself.  The  possibility  of 
her  actually  loving  him  did  not  then  suggest  it- 
self. He  looked  upon  it  as  one  of  those  profound 
pieces  of  policy  for  which  he  was  always  on  the 
look-out  from  her.  The  discovery  of  this  dis- 
turbed him.  The  arrival  of  Lord  Chetwynde 
had  troubled  him  ;  but  this  new  plan  of  Hilda's 
troubled  him  still  more,  and  all  the  more  because 
he  was  now  shut  out  from  her  confidence. 

'  The  little  thing  is  up  to  a  new  game ;  and 
she  11  beat,"  he  said  to  himself;  "  she'll  beat,  for 
shf/  always  beats.     She's  got  a  long  head,  and  I 


189 


THE  CRv\'TOGRAM, 


can  only  guess  what  it  is  that  she  is  up  to.  She'll 
never  tell  me. "  And  he  thought,  with  some  pen- 
siveness,  upon  the  sadness  of  that  one  fact,  that 
she  would  never  tell  him.  Meanwhile  he  con- 
tented himself  with  watching  until  something 
more  definite  could  be  known. 

Lord  Chetwynde  had  much  to  occupy  him  in 
his  fatlier's  papers.  He  spent  the  greater  part 
of  his  time  in  the  library,  and  though  weeks 
passed  he  did  not  seem  to  be  near  the  end  of 
them.  At  other  times  he  rode  about  the  grounds 
or  sauntered  througli  the  groves.  The  seclusion 
in  which  the  CJastle  had  always  been  kept  was  not 
disturbed.  The  county  families  were  too  remote 
for  ordinary  calling,  or  else  tliey  did  not  know  of 
his  arrival.  Certain  it  is  that  no  one  entered 
these  solitary  precincts  except  the  doctor.  The 
state  of  things  here  was  puzzling  to  him.  lie 
saw  Lord  Chetwynde  whenever  he  came,  but  he 
never  saw  Lady  Chetwynde.  On  his  asking  anx- 
iously about  her  he  was  told  that  she  was  well. 
It  was  surprising  to  him  that  she  never  showed 
herself,  but  he  attributed  it  to  her  grief  for  the 
dead.  He  did  not  know  what  had  become  of 
Miss  Krieff,  whose  zeal  in  the  sick-room  had 
won  'i-s  admiration.  Lord  Chetwynde  was  too 
haughty  for  him  to  question,  and  the  servants 
were  all  new  faces.  It  was  therefore  with  much 
pleasure  that  he  one  day  saw  Gualtier.  Him  he 
accosted,  shaking  hands  with  him  earnestly,  and 
with  a  familiarity  which  he  had  never  cared  to 
bestow  in  former  days.  But  curiosity  was  stron- 
ger than  his  sense  of  personal  dignity.  Gualtier 
allowed  himself  to  be  questioned,  and  gave  the 
doctor  that  information  which  he  judged  best  for 
the  benefit  of  the  world  without.  Lady  Chet- 
wynde, he  told  him,  was  still  mourning  over  the 
loss  of  her  best  friend,  and  even  the  return  of  her 
husband  had  not  been  sufficient  to  fill  the  vacant 
place.  Miss  KrieflF,  he  said,  had  gone  to  join  her 
friends  in  North  Britain,  and  he,  Gualtier,  had 
been  appointed  steward  in  place  of  the  former 
one,  who  had  gone  away  to  London.  This  in- 
formation was  received  by  the  doctor  with  great 
satisfaction,  since  it  set  his  mind  at  rest  com- 
pletely about  certain  things  which  had  puzzled 
him. 

That  evening  one  of  the  servants  informed 
Gualtier  that  Lady  ("hetwynde  wished  to  see 
him  in  the  library.  His  pale  face  flushed  up, 
and  his  eyes  lightened  as  he  walked  there.  She 
was  alone.  He  bowed  reverentially,  yet  not  be- 
fore he  had  cast  toward  her  a  look  full  of  unutter- 
able devotion.  She  was  paler  than  before.  There 
was  sadness  on  her  face.  She  had  thrown  her- 
self carelessly  in  an  arm-chair,  and  her  hands 
were  nervously  clutching  one  another.  Never 
before  had  he  seen  any  thing  approaching  to 
emotion  in  this  singular  being.  Her  present 
agitation  surprised  him,  for  he  had  not  sus- 
pected the  possibility  of  any  thing  like  this. 

She  returned  his  greeting  with  a  slight  bow, 
and  then  fell  for  a  time  into  a  fit  of  abstraction, 
during  which  she  did  not  take  any  further  notice 
of  him.  Gualtier  was  more  impressed  by  this 
than  by  any  other  thing.  Al'-.ays  before  she 
had  been  self-possessed,  with  all  her  faculties 
alive  and  in  full  activity.  Now  she  seemed  so 
dull  and  so  changed  that  he  did  not  know  what 
to  k.  He  began  to  fear  the  approach  of 
some  calamity  by  which  all  his  plans  would  be 
ruined. 


"  Mr.  M'Kenzie,"  said  Hilda,  rousing  herself 
at  length,  and  speaking  in  a  harsh,  constrained 
voice,  which  yet  was  low  and  not  audible  except 
to  one  who  was  near  her,  "  have  you  seen  Lord 
Chetwynde  since  his  arrival?" 

"No,  my  lady,"  said  Gualtier,  respectfully, 
yet  wondering  at  the  abruptness  with  which  she 
introduced  the  subject.  For  it  had  always  hith- 
erto been  lier  fashion  to  lead  the  conversation  on 
by  grndiml  approaches  toward  the  particular 
thing  about  which  she  might  wish  to  make  in- 
quiries. 

"1  thought,"  she  continued,  in  the  same  tone, 
"that  he  might  have  called  you  up  to  gain  in- 
formation about  the  condition  of  the  estate." 

' '  No,  my  lady,  he  has  never  shown  any  such 
desire.  In  fact,  ho  does  not  seem  to  be  con- 
scious that  there  is  such  a  person  as  myself  in 
existence." 

"Since  ho  came,"  said  Hilda,  dreamily,  "he 
has  been  altogether  absorbed  in  the  investiga- 
tion of  papers  relating  to  his  father's  business 
affairs ;  and  as  he  has  not  been  here  for  many 
years,  during  which  great  changes  must  have 
taken  place  in  the  condition  of  things,  I  did  not 
know  but  that  he  might  have  sought  to  gain  in- 
formation from  you. " 

"  No,  my  lady,"  said  Gualtier  once  more,  still 
preserving  that  unfaltering  respect  with  which  he 
always  addressed  her,  and  wondering  whither 
these  inquiries  might  be  tending,  or  what  they 
might  mean.  That  she  should  ask  him  any 
thing  about  Lord  Chetwynde  filled  him  with  a 
vague  alarm,  and  seemed  to  show  that  the  state 
of  things  was  unsatisfactory,  if  not  critical.  He 
was  longing  to  ask  about  that  first  meeting  of 
hers  with  Lord  Chetwynde,  and  also  about  the 
position  which  they  at  present  occupied  toward 
one  another — a  position  most  perplexing  to  him, 
and  utterly  inexplicable.  Yet  on  such  subjects 
as  these  he  did  not  dare  to  speak.  He  coidd 
only  hope  that  she  herself  would  speak  of  them 
to  him,  and  that  she  had  chosen  this  occasion  to 
make  a  fresh  confidence  to  him. 

After  his  last  answer  Hilda  did  not  say  any 
thing  for  some  time.  Her  nervousness  seemed 
to  increase.  Her  hands  still  clutched  one  an- 
other ;  and  her  bosom  heaved  and  fell  :n  quick, 
rai)id  breatliings  which  showed  the  agitation  that 
existed  within  her. 

"  Lord  Chetwynde,"  said  Hilda  at  last,  rousing 
herself  with  a  visible  eftbrt,  and  looking  round 
with  something  of  her  old  stealthy  watchfulness 
— "  Lord  Chetwynde  is  a  man  who  keeps  his  own 
counsel,  and  does  not  choose  to  give  even  so 
much  as  a  hint  about  the  nature  of  his  occupa- 
tions. He  has  now  some  purpose  on  his  mind 
which  he  does  not  choose  to  confide  to  me,  and 
I  do  not  know  how  it  is  possible  for  me  to  find 
it  out.  Yet  it  is  a  thing  which  must  be  of  im- 
portance, for  he  is  not  a  man  who  would  stay 
here  so  long  and  labor  so  hard  on  a  mere  trifle. 
His  ostensible  occupation  is  the  business  of  the 
estate,  and  certain  plans  arising  in  connection 
with  this ;  but  beneath  this  ostensible  occupa- 
tion there  is  some  purpose  which  it  is  impossi- 
ble for  me  to  fathom.  Yet  I  must  find  it  out, 
whatever  it  is,  and  I  have  invited  you  here  to 
see  if  I  could  not  get  your  assistance.  Yoti 
.;,nce  went  to  work  keenly  and  indefutigably  to 
investigate  something  for  me;  and  here  is  an 
occasion  on  which,  if  you  feci  inrlined,  you  can 


' 


T^yy~^ 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


133 


again  exercise  your  talents.  It  may  result  in 
something  of  the  greatest  importance. " 

Hilda  had  spoken  in  low  tones,  and  as  she 
concluded  she  looked  at  Gualtier  with  a  pene- 
trating glance.  Such  a  request  showed  him  that 
lie  was  once  more  indispensable.  His  heart  beat 
fast,  and  his  face  lighted  up  with  joy. 

"My  lady,"  said  he,  in  a  low,  earnest  voice, 
"  it  surely  can  not  be  necessary  for  me  to  tell 
you  that  I  am  always  ready  to  do  your  bidding, 
whatever  it  may  be.  There  is  no  necessity  to 
remind  me  of  the  past.  When  shall  I  begin 
this?  At  once?  Have  you  formed  any  plan 
of  action  which  you  would  like  me  to  follow  ?" 

"Only  in  a  gene' al  way,"  said  Hilda.  "It 
is  not  at  Chetwynd^  that  I  want  you  to  work, 
but  elsewhere.  You  can  do  nothing  here.  I 
myself  have  already  done  all  that  you  could  pos- 
sibly do,  and  more  too,  in  the  way  of  investiga- 
tion in  this  house.  But  in  spite  of  all  my  efforts 
I  have  found  nothing,  and  so  I  see  plainly  that 
the  search  must  be  carried  on  in  another  place." 

"And  where  may  that  be?"  asked  Gual- 
tier. 

"He  has  some  purpose  in  his  mind,"  Hilda 
went  on  to  say — "  some  one  engrossing  object, 
I  know  r  *■  what,  which  is  far  more  important 
than  any  .  :ng  relating  to  business,  and  which 
is  his  one  great  aim  in  life  at  present.  This  is 
what  I  wish  to  find  out.  It  may  threaten  dan- 
ger, and  if  so  I  wish  to  guard  against  it. " 

"Is  there  any  danger?"  asked  Gualtier,  cau- 
tiously. 

"Not  as  yet — that  is,  so  far  as  I  can  see." 

"Does  he  suspect  any  thing?"  said  Gualtier, 
in  a  whisper. 

"Nothing." 

"You  seem  agitated." 

"Never  mind  what  I  seem," said  Hilda,  cold- 
ly; "  my  health  is  not  good.  As  to  Lord  Chet- 
wynde,  he  is  going  away  in  a  short  time,  and  the 
place  to  which  he  goes  will  afford  the  best  op- 
portunity for  finding  out  what  his  purpose  is. 
I  wish  to  know  if  it  is  possible  for  you  in  any 
^^'ay  to  follow  him  so  as  to  watch  him.  You 
(lid  something  once  before  that  was  not  more 
difficult." 

Gualtier  smiled. 

"I  think  1  can  promise,  my  lady,"  said  he, 
' '  that  I  will  do  ail  that  you  desire.  I  only  wish 
that  it  was  something  more  difficult,  so  that  I 
could  do  the  more  for  you. " 

"  You  may  get  your  wish, "said  Hilda,  gloom- 
ily, and  in  sv  tone  that  penetrated  to  the  inmost 
soul  of  Gualtier.  "You  may  get  your  wish, 
and  that,  too,  before  long.  But  at  present  I  only 
wish  you  to  do  this.  It  is  a  simple  task  of  watch- 
fulness and  patient  observation. " 

"I  will  do  it  as  no  man  ever  did  it  before," 
said  Gualtier.  "You  shall  know  the  events  of 
every  hour  of  his  life  till  he  comes  back  again." 

"  That  will  do,  then.  Be  ready  to  leave  when- 
ever he  does.  Choose  your  own  way  of  observ- 
ing him,  either  openly  or  secretly;  you  yourself 
know  best." 

Hilda  spoke  very  wearily,  and  rose  to  with- 
draw. As  she  passed,  Gualtier  stood  looking  at 
her  with  an  imploring  face.  She  carelessly  held 
out  her  hand.  He  snatched  it  in  both  of  his  and 
jiressed  it  to  his  lips. 

"My  God!"  he  cried,  "it's  like  ice!  What 
ii  the  matter  ?" 


Hilda  did  not  seem  to  hear  him,  but  walked 
slowly  out  of  the  room. 

About  a  week  after  this  Lord  Chetwjmde  took 
his  departure. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

OBED    STANDS    AT    BAY. 

On  leaving  Marseilles  all  Zillah's  troubles  seem- 
ed to  return  to  her  once  more.  The  presence  of 
Windham  had  dispelled  them  for  a  time ;  now 
that  he  was  present  no  longer  there  was  nothing 
to  save  her  from  sorrow.  She  had  certainly  enough 
to  weigh  down  any  one,  and  among  all  her  sorrows 
her  latest  grief  stood  pre-eminent.  The  death  of 
the  Earl,  the  cruel  discovery  of  those  papers  in 
her  father's  drawer  by  which  there  seemed  to 
be  a  stain  on  her  father's  memory,  the  intol- 
erable insult  which  she  had  endured  in  that  let- 
ter from  Guy  to  his  father,  the  desperate  reso- 
lution to  fly,  the  anguish  which  she  had  en- 
dured on  Hilda's  account,  and,  finally,  the  ago- 
ny of  that  lone  voyage  in  the  drifting  schooner 
— all  these  now  came  back  to  her  with  fresher  vi- 
olence, recurring  again  with  overpowering  force 
from  the  fact  that  they  had  been  kept  off  so 
long.  Yet  there  was  not  one  memory  among 
all  these  which  so  subdued  her  as  the  memory 
of  the  parting  scene  with  Windham.  This  was 
the  great  sorrow  of  her  life.  Would  she  ever 
meet  him  again  ?  Perhaps  not.  Or  why  should 
she  ?    Of  what  avail  would  it  be  ? 

Passing  over  the  seas  she  gave  herself  up  to 
her  recollections,  and  to  the  mournful  thoughts 
that  crowded  in  upon  her.  Among  other  things, 
she  could  not  help  thinking  and  wondering  about 
Windham's  despair.  What  was  the  reason  that 
he  had  always  kept  such  a  close  watch  over  him- 
self? What  was  the  roason  why  he  never  ven- 
tured to  utter  in  words  that  which  had  so  often 
been  expressed  in  his  eloquent  face  ?  Above  all, 
what  was  the  cause  of  that  despairing  cry  which 
had  escaped  him  when  they  exchanged  their  last 
farewell?  It  was  the  recognition  on  his  part 
of  some  insuperable  obstacle  that  lay  between 
them.  That  was  certain.  Yet  what  could  the 
obstacle  be?  Clearly,  it  could  not  have  been 
the  knowledge  of  her  own  position.  It  was 
perfectly  evident  that  Windham  knew  nothing 
whatever  about  her,  and  could  have  not  even 
the  faintest  idea  of  the  truth.  It  must  there- 
fore be,  as  she  saw  it,  that  this  obstacle  could 
only  be  one  which  was  in  connection  with  him- 
self. And  what  could  that  ijo  ?  Was  he  a  priest 
under  vows  of  celibacy  ?  She  smiled  at  the  pre- 
posterous idea.  Was  he  engaged  to  be  married 
in  England,  and  was  he  now  on  the  way  to  his 
bride  ?  Could  this  be  it  ?  and  was  his  anguish 
the  result  of  the  conflict  between  love  and  honor 
in  his  breast?  This  may  have  been  the  case. 
Finally,  was  he  married  already?  She  could 
not  teil.  She  rather  fancied  that  it  was  an  en- 
gagement, not  a  marriage  ^  and  it  was  in  this 
that  she  thought  she  could  find  the  meaning  of 
his  passionate  and  despairing  words. 

Passing  over  those  waters  where  once  she 
had  known  what  it  was  to  be  betrayed,  and 
had  tasted  of  the  bitterness  of  death,  she  did 
not  find  that  they  had  power  to  renew  the  de- 
spair which  they  once  had  caused.  Behind  the 
black  memory  of  that  hour  of  anguish  rose  up  an- 


■■•.fw^l^cmryf^--' 


■■1^" 


184 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


other  memory  which  engrossed  all  her  thoughts. 
If  she  had  tears,  it  was  for  this.  It  was  Wind- 
ham, whose  image  filled  all  her  soul,  and  whose 
last  words  eclioed  through  her  heart.  For  as 
she  gazed  on  these  waters  it  was  not  of  the 
drifting  schooner  that  she  thought,  not  of  the 
hours  of  intense  watchfulness,  not  of  the  hope 
deferred  that  gradually  turned  into  despair ;  it 
was  rather  of  the  man  who,  as  she  had  oftc! 
heard  since,  was  the  one  who  first  recognized 
her,  and  came  to  her  in  her  senselessness,  and 
bore  her  in  his  arms  back  to  life.  Had  he  done 
well  in  rescuing  her  ?  Had  he  not  saved  her  for 
a  greater  sorrow  ?  Whether  he  had  or  not  mat- 
tered not.  He  had  saved  her,  and  her  life  was 
his.  That  strange  rescue  constituted  a  bond  be- 
tween them  which  could  not  be  dissolved.  Their 
lives  might  run  henceforth  in  lines  which  should 
never  meet,  but  still  they  belonged  henceforth 
to  one  another,  though  they  might  never  possess 
one  another.  Out  from  among  these  waters  there 
came  also  sweeter  memories — the  memories  of 
voyages  over  calm  seas,  under  the  shadow  of 
the  hoary  Alps,  where  they  passed  away  th^se 
golden  hours,  knowing  that  the  end  must  comv. 
yet  resolved  to  enjoy  to  the  full  the  rapture  oi 
the  present.  These  were  the  thoughts  that  sus- 
tained her.  No  grief  could  rob  her  of  these ; 
but  in  cherishing  them  her  soul  found  peace. 

Those  into  whose  society  she  had  been  thrown 
respected  her  grief  and  her  reticence.  For  the 
first  day  she  had  shut  herself  up  in  her  room ; 
but  the  confinement  became  intolerable,  and  she 
was  forced  to  go  out  on  deck.  She  somewhat 
dreaded  lest  Obed  Chute,  out  of  the  very  kind- 
ness of  his  heart,  would  come  and  try  to  enter- 
tain her.  She  did  not  feel  in  the  mood  for  talk- 
ing. Any  attempt  at  entertaining  her  she  felt 
would  be  unendurable.  But  she  did  not  know 
the  perfect  refinement  of  sentiment  that  dwelt 
beneath  the  rough  exterior  of  Obed.  He  seem- 
ed at  once  to  divine  her  state  of  mind.  With 
the  utmost  delicacy  he  found  a  place  for  her  to 
sit,  but  said  little  or  nothing  to  her,  and  for  all 
the  remainder  of  the  voyage  treated  her  with  a 
silent  deference  of  attention  which  was  most 
grateful.  She  knew  that  he  was  not  neglect- 
ful. She  saw  a  hundred  times  a  day  that  Obed's 
mind  was  filled  with  anxiety  about  her,  and  that 
to  minister  to  her  comfort  was  his  one  idea.  But 
it  was  not  in  words  that  this  was  expressed.  It 
was  in  helping  her  up  and  down  from  the  cabin 
to  the  deck,  in  fetching  wraps,  in  speaking  a 
cheerful  word  from  time  to  time,  and,  above 
all,  in  keeping  his  family  away  from  her,  that 
he  showed  his  watchful  attention.  Thus  the 
time  passed,  and  Zillah  was  left  to  brood  over 
her  griefs,  and  to  conjecture  hopelessly  and  at 
random  about  the  future.  What  would  that 
f-iture  bring  forth?  Would  the  presence  of 
Hilda  console  her  in  any  way?  She  did  not 
see  how  it  could.  After  the  first  joy  of  meet- 
ing, she  felt  that  she  would  relapse  into  her 
usual  sadness.  Time  only  could  relieve  her, 
and  her  only  hope  was  patience. 

At  last  they  landed  at  Naples.  Obed  took 
the  party  to  a  handsome  house  on  the  Strada 
Nuova,  where  he  had  lodged  when  ho  was  in 
Naples  before,  and  where  he  obtained  a  suite  of 
apartments  in  front,  which  commanded  a  mag- 
nificent view  of  the  bay,  with  all  its  unrivaled 
scenery,  together  with  the  tumultuous  life  of  the 


street  below.  Here  he  left  them,  and  departed 
himself  almost  immediately  to  begin  his  search 
after  Hilda.  Her  letter  mentioned  that  sh6  was 
stopping  at  the  "  Hotel  de  I'Europe,"  in  ihn 
Strada  Toledo ;  and  to  this  place  he  first  direct- 
ed his  way. 

On  arriving  here  he  found  a  waiter  who  could 
speak  English,  which  was  a  fortunate  thing,  in 
his  opinion,  as  he  could  not  speak  a  word  of  any 
other  language.  He  at  once  asked  if  a  lady  by 
the  name  of  Miss  Lorton  was  stopping  here. 

The  waiter  looked  at  him  with  a  peculiar 
glance,  and  surveyed  him  from  head  to  foot. 
There  was  something  in  the  expression  of  his 
face  which  appeared  very  singular  to  Obed — a 
mixture  of  eager  curiosity  and  surprise,  which 
to  him,  to  say  the  least,  seemed  imcalled  for  un- 
der the  circumstances.  He  felt  indignant  at 
such  treatment  from  a  waiter. 

"If  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  stare  less 
and  answer  my  question,"  said  he,  "I  will  feel 
obliged ;  but  perhaps  you  don't  understand  En- 
glish." 

"I  beg  pardon,"  said  the  other,  in  very  good 
English ;  "  but  what  was  the  name  of  the  lady  ?" 

"  Miss  Lorton,"  said  Obed. 

The  waiter  looked  at  him  again  with  the  same 
peculiar  glance,  and  then  replied  : 

"I  don't  know,  but  I  will  ask.  Wait  here  a 
moment." 

Saying  this,  he  departed,  and  Obed  saw  him 
speaking  to  some  half  a  dozen  persons  in  the 
hall  very  earnestly  and  hurriedly ;  then  he  went 
off",  and  in  about  five  minutes  returned  in  com- 
pany with  the  master  of  the  hotel. 

"Were  you  asking  after  a  lady?"  said  he,  in 
verv  fair  English,  and  bowing  courteously  to 
Obed. 

"I  was,"  said  Obed,  who  noticed  at  the  same 
time  that  this  man  was  regarding  him  with  the 
same  ex|)ression  of  eager  and  scj'utinizing  curi- 
osity which  he  had  seen  on  the  face  of  the  other. 

'And  what  was  the  name  ?'' 

"Miss  Lorton." 

"Miss  Lorton?"  repeated  the  other;  "yes, 
she  is  here.  Will  you  be  kind  enough  to  follow 
me  to  the  parlor  until  I  see  whether  she  is  at 
home  or  not,  and  make  her  acquainted  with  your 
arrival  ?" 

At  this  information,  which  was  communicated 
with  extreme  politeness,  Obed  felt  such  immense 
relief  that  he  forgot  altogether  about  the  very  pecul- 
iar manner  in  which  he  had  been  scrutinized.  A 
great  weight  seemed  suddenly  to  have  been  lifted 
off  his  soul.  For  the  first  time  in  many  weeks 
he  began  to  breathe  freely.  He  thought  of  the 
joy  which  he  would  bring  to  that  poor  young  girl 
who  had  been  thrown  so  strangely  under  his  pro- 
tection, and  who  was  so  sad.  For  a  moment  he 
hesitated  whether  to  wait  any  longer  or  not. 
His  first  impulse  was  to  hurry  away  and  bring 
her  here ;  but  then  in  a  moment  he  thought  it 
would  be  far  bettor  to  wait,  and  to  take  back 
Miss  Lorton  with  him  in  triumph  to  her  sister. 

The  others  watched  his  momentary  hesitation 
vrith  some  apparent  anxiety ;  but  at  length  it 
was  dispelled  by  Obed's  reply : 

"Thank  you.  I  think  I  had  better  wait  and 
see  her.     I  hope  I  won't  be  detained  long." 

"  Oh  no.  She  is  doubtless  in  her  room.  You 
will  only  have  to  wait  a  few  minutes," 

Baying  this,  they  led  the  way  to  a  pleasant 


>  "^^^Jmn^^ 


ii|i|ii.ii|i||i|pyii|iJU[iii|ii 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


18S 


Uj  I'  w  '  ,1  J  jcking  out  on  the  Strada  Toledo,  and 
here  0\A.d  took  a  seat,  and  lost  himself  in  si)ecu- 
lations  as  to  the  appearance  of  the  elder  Miss  Lor- 
ton.  In  about  five  minutes  the  door  was  opened, 
and  the  master  of  the  hotel  made  his  appearance 
again. 

"I  fir  Maid  he,  politely,  "that  Miss  Lor- 
ton  is  no.  She  went  out  only  a  few  minutes 

before  you  .  .ime.  She  left  word  with  her  maid, 
however,  that  she  was  going  to  a  shop  up  the 
Strada  Toledo  to  buy  some  jewelry.  I  am  going 
to  send  a  messenger  to  hasten  her  return.  Shall 
I  send  your  name  by  him  ?" 

"Well,"  said  Obed,  "  I  don't  know  as  it's  nec- 
essary.    Better  wait  till  I  see  her  myself. " 

The  landlord  said  nothing,  but  looked  at  him 
with  strange  eamestness. 

"By-the-way,"  said  Obed,  "how  is  she?" 

"She?" 

"Yes;  Miss  Lorton." 

"Oh,"  said  the  landlord,  "very  well." 

"She  recovered  from  her  illness  then?" 

"Oh  yes." 

"  Is  she  in  good  spirits  ?" 

"  Good  spirits  ?" 

"Yes;  is  she  happy?" 

"Oh  yes." 

"I  am  glad  to  hear  it.  I  was  afraid  she 
might  be  melancholy." 

"Oh  no,"  said  the  landlord,  with  some  ap- 
pearance of  confusion ,  "oh  no.  She's  very 
well.     Oh  yes." 

His  singular  behavior  again  ••ruck  Obed  rath- 
er oddly,  and  he  stared  at  him  for  a  moment. 
But  he  at  last  thought  that  the  landlord  might 
not  know  much  about  the  health  or  the  happi- 
ness of  his  guest,  and  was  answering  from  gen- 
eral impressions. 

"I  will  hasten  then.  Sir,"  said  the  landlord, 
advancing  to  the  door,  "  to  send  the  messenger ; 
and  if  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  wait,  she  will 
be  here  soon." 

He  bowed,  and  going  out,  he  shut  the  door 
behind  liim.  Obed,  who  had  watched  his  em- 
barrassment, thougiit  that  he  heard  the  key  turn. 
The  thing  seemed  very  odd,  and  he  stepped  up 
to  the  door  to  try  it.     It  was  locked ! 

"Well,  I'll  be  darned!"  cried  Obed,  standing 
before  the  door  and  regarding  it  with  astonish- 
ment. ' '  I've  seen  some  curious  foreign  fashions, 
but  this  here  /talian  fashion  of  locking  a  man  in 
is  a  little  the  curiousest.  And  what  in  thunder 
is  the  meaning  of  it?" 

He  looked  at  the  door  with  a  frown,  while 
there  was  that  on  his  face  which  showed  that  he 
might  be  deliberating  whether  to  kick  through  the 
panels  or  not.  But  his  momentary  indignation 
soon  subsided,  and,  with  a  short  laugh,  he  turn- 
ed away  and  strolled  up  to  the  window  with  an 
indifferent  expression.  There  he  drew  up  an 
arm-chair,  and  seating  himself  in  this,  he  looked 
out  into  the  street.  For  some  time  I'i.--  attention 
and  his  thoughts  were  all  engaged  by  the  busy 
scene ;  but  at  length  he  came  to  himself,  and 
began  to  think  that  it  was  about  time  for  the  re- 
turn of  Miss  Lorton.  He  paced  up  and  down 
the  room  impatiently,  till  growing  tired  of  this 
rather  monotonons  employment,  he  sought  tlie 
window  again.  Half  an  hour  had  now  passed, 
and  Obed's  patience  was  fast  failing.  Still  he 
waited  on,  and  another  half  hour  passed.  Then 
he  deliberated  whether  it  would  not  be  better  to 


go  back  to  his  rooms,  and  bring  the  younger  Miss 
Lorton  hero  to  see  her  sister.  But  this  thought 
he  soon  dismissed.  Having  waited  so  long  for 
the  sake  of  carrying  out  his  first  plan,  it  seemed 
weak  to  give  it  up  on  account  of  a  little  impa- 
tience. He  determined,  however,  to  question 
the  landlord  again ;  so  he  pulled  at  the  bell. 

No  answer  came. 

He  pulled  again  and  again  for  some  minutes. 

Still  there  was  no  answer. 

He  now  began  to  feel  indignant,  and  determ- 
ined to  resort  to  extreme  measures.  So  going  to 
the  door,  he  rapped  upon  it  with  his  stick  several 
times,  each  time  waiting  for  an  answer.  But  no 
answer  came.  Then  he  beat  incessantly  against 
the  door,  keeping  up  a  long,  rolling,  rattling  vol- 
ley of  knocks  without  stopping,  and  making  noise 
enough  to  rouse  the  whole  house,  even  if  every 
body  in  the  house  should  happen  to  be  in  the 
deepest  of  slumbers.  Yet  even  now  for  some 
time  there  was  no  response ;  and  Obed  at  length 
was  beginning  to  think  of  his  first  purpose,  and 
preparing  to  kick  through  the  panels,  when  his 
attention  was  aroused  by  the  sound  of  heavy  foot- 
steps in  the  hall.  They  came  nearer  and  nearer 
as  he  stood  waiting,  and  at  length  stopped  in 
front  of  the  door.  His  only  thought  was  that 
this  was  the  lady  whom  he  sought ;  so  he  stepped 
back,  and  hastily  composed  his  face  to  a  pleasant 
smile  of  welcome.  With  this  pleasant  smile  he 
awaited  the  opening  of  the  door. 

But  as  the  door  opened  his  eyes  were  greeted 
by  a  sight  very  different  from  what  he  anticipa- 
ted. No  graceful  lady-like  form  was  there — no 
elder  and  maturer  likeness  of  that  Miss  Lorton 
whose  face  was  now  so  familiar  to  him,  and  so 
dear — but  a  dozen  or  so  gens  d'armes,  headed  by 
the  landlord.  The  latter  entered  the  room,  while 
the  others  stood  outside  in  the  hall. 

"Well,"  said  Obed,  angrily.  "What  is  the 
meaning  of  this  parade  ?  Where  is  Miss  Lorton  ?" 

"These  gentlemen,"  said  the  landlord,  with 
much  politeness,  "will  convey  you  to  the  resi- 
dence of  that  charming  lady." 

"It  seems  to  me,"  said  Obed,  sternly,  "that 
you  have  been  humbugging  me.  Give  me  a 
civil  answer,  or  I  swear  I'll  wring  your  neck.  Is 
Miss  Lorton  here  or  not  ?" 

The  landlord  stepped  back  hastily  a  pace  or 
two,  and  made  a  motion  to  the  gens  d'armes. 
A  half  dozen  of  these  filed  into  the  room,  and 
arranged  themselves  by  the  wi.idows.  The  rest 
remained  in  the  hall. 

"What  is  the  meaning  of  this?"  said  Obed, 
"Are  you  crazy?" 

"The  meaning  is  this,"  said  the  other,  sharp- 
ly and  fiercely.  "  I  am  not  the  landlord  of  the 
Hotel  de  I'Europe,  but  sub-agent  of  the  Neapoli- 
tan police.  And  I  arrest  you  in  the  name  of  the 
king." 

' '  Arrest  me .'"  cried  Obed.  ' '  What  the  deuce 
do  you  mean  ?" 

"It  means.  Monsieur,  that  you  are  trapped  at 
last.  I  have  watched  for  you  for  seven  weeks, 
and  have  got  you  now.  You  need  not  try  to  re- 
sist.    That  is  impossible. " 

Obed  looked  round  in  amazement.  What  was 
the  mea  ag  of  it  all?  There  were  the  gens 
d'armes— six  in  the  hall,  and  six  in  the  room. 
All  were  armed.  All  looked  prepared  to  fall  on 
him  at  the  slightest  signal. 

"Are  you  a  bom  fool  ?"  he  cried  at  last,  turn- 


186 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


I 


[  ' 


ing  to  the  "  agent."  "  Do  you  know  what  you 
are  doing  ?  I  am  an  American,  a  native  of  the 
great  republic,  a  free  man,  and  a  gentleman. 
What  do  you  mean  by  this  insult,  and  these 
beggarly  policemen  ?" 

"I  mean  this," said  the  other,  "  that  you  are 
my  prisoner." 


"  I  am,  am  I  ?"  said  Obed,  with  a  grim  smile. 
"  A  prisoner !  My  friend,  that  is  a  ditiicult  thing 
to  come  to  pass  without  my  consent." 

And  saying  this,  he  quietly  drew  a  revolver 
from  his  breast  pocket. 

"  Now,"  said  he,  "  my  good  friend,  look  hero. 
I  have  this  little  instimment,  and  I'm  a  deud 


■I*'  •  j^TTT'  r 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


187 


lO 


o 
a 


O 


o 


shot.  I  don't  intend  to  be  hunibiigged.  If  any 
one  of  you  dnre  to  miike  a  movement  I'll  put  a 
bullet  through  you.  And  you,  you  scoundrel, 
Htand  where  you  are,  or  you'll  get  the  first  bullet. 
You've  got  hold  of  the  wrong  man  this  time,  but 
I'm  going  to  get  satisfaction  for  this  out  of  your 
infernal  beggarly  government.  As  to  you,  an- 
swer my  questions.  First,  who  the  deuce  do  you 
take  me  to  by  ?  You've  made  some  infernal  mis- 
take or  other." 

The  agent  cowered  beneath  the  stem  eye  of 
Obed.  He  felt  himself  covered  by  his  i)istol, 
and  did  not  dare  to  move.  The  gens  d'armes 
looked  disturbed,  but  made  no  eftort  to  inter- 
fere. They  felt  that  they  had  to  do  with  a  des- 
perate man,  and  waited  for  orders. 

"Don't  you  hear  my  question?"  thundered 
Obed.  "  What  the  deuce  is  the  meaning  of  this, 
and  who  the  deuce  do  yon  take  me  for  ?  Don't 
move,"  he  cried,  seeing  a  faint  movement  of  the 
agent's  hand  ;  "  or  I'll  blow  your  brains  out ;  I 
will,  by  the  Eternal !" 

"Beware,"  faltered  the  agent;  "I  belong  to 
the  police.     I  am  doing  my  duty." 

"  Pooh !  What  is  your  beggarly  police  to  me, 
or  your  beggarly  king  either,  and  all  his  court  ? 
There  are  a  couple  of  Yankee  frigates  out  there 
that  could  bring  down  the  whole  concern  in  a 
half  hour's  bombardment.  You've  made  a  mis- 
take, you  poor,  pitiful  concern  ;  but  I'm  in  search 
of  information,  and  I'm  bound  to  get  it.  An- 
swer me  now  without  any  more  humbugging. 
What's  the  meaning  of  this  ?" 

"I  was  ordered  to  watch  for  any  one  who 
might  come  here  and  ask  for  ^ Miss  Lorton,'"  said 
the  agent,  who  spoke  like  a  criminal  to  a  judge. 
"I  have  watched  here  for  seven  weeks.  You 
came  to-day,  and  you  are  under  arrest." 

"Ah?"  said  Obed,  as  a  light  began  to  flash 
upon  him.     "Who  ordered  you  to  watch  ?" 

"The  prefect." 

"Do  you  know  any  thing  about  the  person 
whom  you  were  to  arrest  ?" 

"No." 

*'  Don't  you  know  his  crime  ?" 

"  No.  It  had  something  to  do  with  the  French 
police." 

"  Do  you  know  his  name  ?" 

"  Yes." 

"What  was  it?"  '■'"■'■ 

"  Gmltier,"  said  the  agent. 

"  And  you  think  I  am  Gualtier?" 

"Yes." 

"  And  so  there  is  no  such  person  as  Miss  Lor- 
ton  here  ?" 

"No." 

"  Hasn't  she  been  here  at  all  ?" 

"No ;  no  such  person  has  ever  been  here." 

"That  '11  do,"  said  Obed,  gravely,  and  with 
some  sadness  in  his  face.  As  he  spoke,  he  put 
back  his  revoher  into  his  pocket.  "  My  good 
friend,"  said  he,  "you've  made  a  mistake,  and 
put  me  to  some  annoyance,  but  you've  only  done 
your  duty.  I  forgive  you.  I  am  not  this  man 
(lualtier  whom  you  are  after,  but  I  am  the  man 
that  is  after  him.  Perhaps  it  would  have  been 
better  for  me  to  have  gone  straight  to  the  police 
when  I  first  came,  but  I  thought  I'd  find  her 
here.  However,  I  can  go  there  now.  I  have  a 
message  and  a  letter  of  introduction  to  the  pre- 
fect of  police  here  from  tiie  prefect  at  Marseilles, 
which  I  am  anxious  now  to  deliver  as  soon  as 


possible.  So,  my  young  friend,  I'll  go  with  you 
after  all,  and  you  needn't  be  in  the  least  afraid 
of  me." 

The  agent  still  looked  dubious ;  but  Obed, 
who  was  in  a  hurry  now,  and  had  got  over  his 
indignation,  took  from  his  pocket-book  some  of- 
ficial documents  bearing  the  marks  of  the  French 
prefecture,  and  addressed  to  that  of  Naples.  This 
satisfied  the  agent,  and,  with  many  apologies,  he 
walked  off  with  Obed  down  to  the  door,  and  there 
entering  a  cab,  they  drove  to  the  prefecture. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

GLIMPSES  OP  THE   TRUTH. 

Meanwhile,  during  Obed's  absence,  Zillah 
remained  in  the  Strada  Nuova.  The  Windows 
looked  out  upon  the  street  and  upon  the  bay, 
commanding  a  view  of  the  most  glorious  scenery 
on  earth,  and  also  of  the  most  exciting  street 
spectacles  which  any  city  can  otter.  Full  of 
impatience  though  she  was,  she  could  not  remain 
unaffected  by  that  first  glimpse  of  Naples,  which 
she  then  obtained  from  those  windows  by  which 
she  was  sitting.  For  what  city  is  like  Naples  ? 
Beauty,  life,  laughter,  gayety,  all  have  their 
home  here.  The  air  itself  is  intoxication.  The 
giddy  crowds  that  whirl  along  in  every  direction 
seem  to  belong  to  a  diflierent  and  a  more  joyous 
race  than  sorrowing  humanity.  For  ages  Naples 
has  been  "  the  captivating,"  and  still  she  possess- 
es the  same  charm,  and  she  will  possess  it  for 
ages  yet  to  come. 

The  scene  upon  which  Zillah  gazed  was  one 
which  might  have  brought  distraction  and  allevi- 
ation to  cares  and  griefs  even  heavier  than  hers. 
Never  had  she  seen  such  a  sight  as  this  which 
she  now  beheld.  There  before  her  spread  away 
the  deep  blue  waters  of  Naples  Bay,  dotted  by 
the  snow-white  .sails  of  countless  vessels,  from 
the  small  fishing-boat  up  to  the  giant  ship  of  war. 
On  that  sparkling  bosom  of  the  deep  was  repre- 
sented almost  every  thing  that  floats,  from  the 
light,  swift,  and  curiously  rigged  lateen  sloop, 
to  the  modem  mail-packet.  Turning  from  the 
sea  the  eye  might  rest  upon  the  surrounding 
shores,  and  find  there  material  of  even  deeper 
interest.  On  the  right,  close  by,  was  the  pro- 
jecting castle,  and  sweeping  beyond  this  the  long 
curving  beach,  above  which,  far  away,  rose  the 
green  trees  of  the  gardens  of  the  Villa  Reale. 
Farther  away  rose  the  hills  on  whose  slope  stands 
what  is  claimed  to  be  the  grave  of  Virgil,  whose 
pictiu-esque  monument,  whether  it  be  really  his 
or  not,  suggests  his  well-known  epitaph : 

"I  sing  flocks,  tillage,       oes.    Mantua  gave        , 
Me  life;  Bnuiduglum  auath;  Naples  a  grave." 

Through  those  hills  runs  the  Titanic  grotto  of 
PosiU])i)o,  which  leads  to  that  historic  land  be- 
yond— the  land  of  the  Cumoeans  and  Oscans ; 
or,  still  more,  the  land  of  the  luxurious  Romans 
of  the  empire;  where  Sylla  lived,  and  Cicero 
loved  to  retire ;  which  Julius  loved,  and  Horace, 
and  every  Roman  of  taste  or  refinement.  There 
spread  away  the  lake  Lucrine,  bordered  by  the 
Klysian  Fields ;  there  was  the  long  grotto  through 
which  ^neas  passed ;  where  once  the  Cumsean 
Sibyl  dwelt  and  delivered  her  oracles.  There 
was  Misenum,  where  once  the  Roman  navy  rode 


^W..'/».i«ii  ii.ii>i,i  (|isi»i,"«i  ^"•im;iihh'",v  '"'I'jWj^ll.'.Wfl" 


138 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


M 


at  anchor ;  Bairn,  where  once  all  Roman  lux- 
ury loved  to  pass  the  summer  season ;  Puteoli, 
where  St.  Paul  landed  when  on  his  way  to  Ciesar's 
throne.  There  were  the  waters  in  which  Nero 
thought  to  drown  Agrippina,  and  over  which 
another  Roman  emperor  built  that  colossal 
bridge  which  set  at  defiance  the  prohibition  of 
nature.  There  was  the  rock  of  Ischia,  termina- 
ting the  line  of  coast ;  and  out  at  sea,  immedi- 
ately in  front,  the  isle  of  Capri,  forever  asso- 
ciated with  the  memory  of  Tiberius,  with  his 
deep  wiles,  his  treachery,  and  his  remorseless 
cruelty.  There,  too,  on  the  left  and  nearest 
Capri,  were  the  shores  of  Sorrento,  tliat  earth-  j 
ly  jjaradise  whose  trees  are  always  green,  whose ; 
fruits  always  ripe ;  there  the  cave  of  Polyphemus  ! 
penetrates  the  lofty  mountains,  and  brings  back 
that  song  of  Homer  by  which  it  is  immortalized. 
Coming'  nearer,  the  eye  rested  on  the  winding 
shores  of  Castellamare,  on  vineyards  and  mead- 
ows and  orchards,  which  fill  all  this  glorious 
land.  Nearer  yet  the  scene  was  dominated  by 
the  stupendous  form  of  Vesuvius,  at  once  the 
glory  and  the  terror  of  all  this  scene,  from 
whose  summit  there  never  ceases  to  come  that 
thin  line  of  smoke,  the  symbol  of  possible  ruin 
to  all  who  dwell  within  sight  of  it.  Round  it 
lie  the  buried  cities,  whose  chan-ed  remains  have 
been  exhumed  to  tell  what  may  yet  be  the  fate 
of  those  otlier  younger  cities  which  have  arisen 
on  their  ashes. 

While  the  scene  beyond  was  so  enthralling, 
there  was  one  nearer  by  which  was  no  less  so. 
This  was  the  street  itself,  with  that  wild,  never- 
ending  rush  of  riotous,  volatile,  multitudinous 
life,  which  can  be  equaled  by  no  other  city. 
There  the  crowd  swept  along  on  horseback,  on 
wheels,  on  foot ;  gentlemen  riding  for  pleasure, 
or  dragoons  on  duty ;  parties  driving  into  the 
country ;  tourists  on  their  way  to  the  environs ; 
market  farmers  with  their  rude  carts ;  wine-sell- 
ers ;  fig-dealers ;  peddlers  of  oranges,  of  dates, 
of  anisette,  of  water,  of  macaroni.  Through 
the  throng  innumerable  calashes  dashed  to  and 
fro,  crowded  down,  in  true  Neapolitan  fashion, 
with  inconceivable  numbers;  for  in  Naples  the 
calash  is  not  fidl  unless  a  score  or  so  are  in 
some  way  clingi?ig  to  it — above,  below,  before, 
behind.  There,  too,  most  marked  of  all,  were 
the  lazaroni,  whose  very  existence  in  Naples  is 
a,  sign  of  the  ease  with  which  life  is  sustained 
in  so  fair  a  spot,  who  are  born  no  one  knows 
where,  who  live  no  one  knows  how,  but  who 
secure  as  much  of  the  joy  of  life  as  any  other 
human  beings ;  the  strange  result  of  that  end- 
less combination  of  races  which  have  come  to- 
gether in  Naples — the  Greek,  the  Italian,  the 
Norman,  the  Saracen,  and  Heaven  only  knows 
what  else. 

Such  scenes  as  these,  such  crowds,  such  life, 
such  universal  movement,  for  a  long  time  attract- 
ed Zillah's  attention ;  and  she  watched  them 
with  childish  eagemess.  At  "  .st,  however,  the 
novelty  was  over,  and  she  began  to  wonder  wliy 
Obed  Chute  had  not  returned.  Looking  at  lier 
watch,  she  found,  to  her  amazement,  that  two 
hours  had  passed  since  his  departure.  He  had 
left  at  ten ;  it  was  then  mid-day.  What  was 
keeping  him  ?  She  had  expected  liim  back  be- 
fore half  an  hour,  bat  he  had  not  yet  returned. 
She  had  thought  that  it  needed  but  a  journey  to 
the  Hotel  de  I'Europe  to  find  Hilda,  and  bring 


her  here.  Anxiety  now  began  to  arise  in  her 
mind,  and  the  scenes  outside  lost  all  charm  for 
her.  Her  impatience  increased  till  it  became  in- 
tolerable. Miss  Chute  saw  her  agitatic"  ""i1 
made  some  attempt  to  soothe  her,  but  ' 
In  fact,  by  one  o'clock,  Zillah  had  giver 
up  to  all  sorts  of  fears.     Sometimes  sh  t 

that  Hilda  had  grown  tired  of  wait"  .ad 

gone  back  to  England,  and  was  •  liing 

through  France  and  Italy  for  h  lii  she 

thought  that  perhaps  she  had  exp  ed  a  re- 

lapse and  had  died  here  in  Naples,  far  away  from 
all  friends,  while  she  herself  was  loitering  in 
Marseilles;  at  another  time  her  fears  took  a 
more  awful  turn — her  thoughts  turned  on  Gual- 
tier — and  she  imagined  that  ho  had,  perhaps, 
come  on  to  Naples  to  deal  to  Hilda  that  fate 
which  ho  had  tried  to  deal  to  her.  These 
thoughts  were  all  maddening,  and  filled  her 
with  uncontrollable  agitation.  She  felt  sure  at 
last  that  some  dread  thing  had  happened,  which 
Obed  Chute  had  discovered,  and  which  he  feared 
to  reveal  to  her.  Therefore  he  kept  away ;  and 
on  no  other  grounds  could  she  account  for  his 
long-continued  absence. 

Two  o'clock  passed — and  three,  and  four,  and 
five.  Tlie  suspense  was  fearful  to  Zillah,  so 
fearful,  indeed,  that  at  last  she  felt  that  it  would 
be  a  relief  to  hear  any  news — even  the  worst. 

At  length  her  suspense  was  ended.  About 
half  past  five  Obed  returned.  Anxiety  was  on 
his  face,  and  he  looked  at  Zillah  with  an  expres- 
sion of  the  deepest  pity  and  commiseration.  She 
on  her  part  advanced  to  meet  him  with  white 
lips  and  trembling  frame,  and  laid  on  his  hand 
her  own,  which  was  like  ice. 

"  You  have  not  found  her  ?"  she  faltered,  in  a 
scarce  audible  voice. 

Obed  shook  his  head. 

"She  is  dead,  then!"  cried  Zillah;  "she  is 
dead !  She  died  here  —  among  strangers  —  in 
Naples,  and  I — I  delayed  in  Marseilles !" 

A  deep  groan  burst  from  her,  and  all  the  an- 
guish of  self-reproach  and  keen  remorse  swept 
over  her  soul. 

Obed  Chute  looked  at  her  earnestly  and  mourn- 
fully. 

"My  child,"  said  he,  taking  her  little  hand 
tenderly  in  both  of  his — "my  poor  child — you 
need  not  be  afraid  that  your  sister  is  dead.  She 
is  alive — as  much  as  you  are. " 

"Alive!"  cried  Zillah,  rousing  herself  from 
her  despair.  "Alive!  God  be  thanked !  Have 
you  found  out  that  'i'    But  where  is  she  ?" 

"  Whether  God  is  to  be  thanked  or  not  I  do 
not  know,"  said  Obed ;  "but  it's  my  solemn  be- 
lief that  she  is  as  much  alive  as  she  ever  was. " 

"  But  where  is  she  ?"  cried  Zillah,  eagerly. 
"Have  you  found  out  that?" 

"  It  would  take  a  man  with  a  head  as  long  as 
a  horse  to  tell  that,"  said  Obed,  sententiously. 

"What  do  you  mean?  Have  you  not  found 
out  that  ?  How  do  you  know  that  she  is  alive  ? 
You  only  hope  so — as  I  do.  You  do  not  know 
so.     Oh,  do  not,  do  not  keep  me  in  suspense." 

"I  mean,"  said  Obed,  slowly  and  solemnly, 
"that  this  sister  of  yours  has  never  been  in 
Naples ;  that  there  is  no  such  steamer  in  exist- 
ence as  that  which  she  mentions  in  her  letter 
which  you  showed  me ;  that  there  is  no  such 
ship,  and  no  such  captain,  and  no  such  captain's 
wife,  as  those  which  she  writes  about ;  that  no 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


139 


such  person  was  ever  picked  up  adrift  in  that 
way,  and  brought  here,  except  your  own  poor 
innocent,  trustful,  loving  self — you,  my  poor 
dear  child,  who  have  been  betrayed  by  miserable 
assassins.  And  by  the  Eternal!"  cried  Obed, 
with  a  deeper  solemnity  in  his  voice,  raising  up 
at  the  same  time  his  colossal  arm  and  his  clench- 
ed fist  to  heaven — "  by  the  Eternal !  I  swear 
I'll  trace  all  this  out  yet,  and  pay  it  out  in  full  to 
these  infernal  devils!" 

.  "Oh,  my  God !"  cried  Zillah.  "What  do  you 
mean  ?  Do  you  mean  that  Hilda  has  not  been 
here  at  all  ?" 

"No  such  person  has  ever  been  in  Naples." 

"Why,  was  she  not  picked  up  adrift?  and 
where  could  they  have  taken  her  ?  ' 

"  She  never  was  picked  up.  Kely  upon  that. 
No  such  ship  as  the  one  she  mentions  has  ever 
been  here." 

"Then  she  has  written  down  'Naples'  in 
mistake,"  cried  Zillah,  while  a  shudder  passed 
through  her  at  Obed's  frightful  insinuation. 

"No,"  said  Obed.  "She  wrote  it  down  de- 
liberately, and  wrote  it  several  times.  Her  rep- 
etition of  that  name,  her  description  of  the  charms 
of  Naples,  show  that  she  did  this  intentionally. 
Besides,  your  envelope  has  the  Naples  postage 
stamps  and  the  Naples  post -marks.  It  was 
mailed  here,  whether  it  was  written  here  or  not. 
It  was  sent  from  here  to  fetch  you  to  this  place,  on 
this  journey,  which  resulted  as  you  remember. " 

"Oh,  my  God!"  q-ied  Zillah,  as  the  full  hor- 
ror of  Obed's  meaning  began  to  dawn  upon  her. 
"What  do  you  mean?  What  do  you  mean? 
Do  you  wish  to  drive  me  to  utter  despair  ?  Tell 
me  where  you  have  been  and  what  you  have 
done.    Oh,  my  God !    Is  any  new  grief  coming  ?" 

"My  child,  the  Lord  on  high  knows,"  said 
Obed  Chute,  with  solemn  emphasis,  "that  I 
would  cut  off  my  right  hand  with  my  own  bowie- 
knife,  rather  than  bring  back  to  you  the  news  I 
do.  But  what  can  be  done  ?  It  is  best  for  you 
to  know  the  whole  truth,  bitter  as  it  is." 

"Go  on,"  said  Zillah,  with  an  effort  to  be 
calm. 

"Come,"  said  Obed,  and  he  led  her  to  a 
seat.  "Calm  yourself,  and  prepare  for  the 
worst.  For  at  the  outset,  and  by  way  of  prep- 
aration and  warning,  I  will  say  that  yours  is  a 
little  the  darkest  case  that  I  ever  got  acquainted 
with.  The  worst  of  it  is  that  there  is  ever  so 
much  behind  it  all  which  I  don't  know  any  thing 
about." 

Zillah  leaned  her  head  upon  her  hand  i^nd 
looked  at  him  with  awful  forebodings. 

"When  I  left  you,"  said  Obed  Chute,  "  I  went 
at  once  to  the  Hotel  de  I'Europe,  expecting  to 
find  her  there,  or  at  least  to  hear  of  her.  I  will 
not  relate  the  particulars  of  my  inquiry  there. 
I  will  only  say  that  no  such  person  as  Miss  Lor- 
ton  had  been  there.  I  found,  however,  that  the 
police  had  been  watching  there  for  seven  weeks 
for  Gualtier.  I  went  with  them  to  the  Prefect- 
ure of  Police.  I  gave  my  letter  of  introduction 
from  the  prefect  of  Marseilles,  and  was  treated 
with  the  utmost  attention.  The  prefect  himself 
informed  me  that  they  had  been  searching  into 
the  whole  case  for  weeks.  They  had  examined 
all  the  vessels  that  had  arrived,  and  had  in- 
spected all  their  logs.  They  had  searched 
through  foreign  papers.  They  had  visited  every 
house  in  the  city  to  wiiich  a  stranger  might  go. 


The  prefect  showed  me  his  voluminous  reports, 
and  went  with  me  to  the  Harbor  Bureau  to  show 
me  the  names  of  ships  which  arrived  here  and 
were  owned  here.  Never  could  there  be  a  more 
searching  investigation  than  this  had  been.  What 
was  the  result? 

"  Listen, "  said  Obed,  with  impressive  empha- 
sis, yet  compassionately,  as  Zillah  hung  upon  his 
words.  "  1  will  tell  you  all  in  brief.  First,  no 
such  person  as  Miss  Lorton  ever  came  to  the 
Hotel  de  I'Europe.  Secondly,  no  such  person 
ever  came  to  Naples  at  all.  Thirdly,  no  ship 
arrived  here  at  the  date  mentioned  by  your  sis- 
ter. Fourthly,  no  ship  of  that  name  ever  came 
here  .it  all.  Fifthly,  no  ship  arrived  here  at  any 
time  this  year  that  had  picked  up  any  one  at  sea. 
The  whole  thing  is  untrue.  It  is  a  base  fiction 
made  up  for  some  purpose. " 

"A  fiction!"  cried  Zillah.  "Never — never 
— she  could  not  so  deceive  me." 

"Can  the  writing  be  forged?" 

"  I  don't  see  h,;.,-  it  can,"  said  Zillah,  piteous- 
ly.  "I  know  her  writing  so  well,"  and  she  drew 
the  letter  from  her  pocket.  "  See — it  is  a  very 
peculiar  hand — and  then,  how  could  any  one 
speak  as  she  does  about  those  things  of  hers 
which  she  wished  me  to  bring  ?  No — it  can  not 
be  a  forgery. " 

"It  is  not,"  said  Obed  Chute.   " It  is  woree." 

"Worse?" 

"Yes,  worse.  If  it  had  been  a  forgery  she 
would  not  have  been  implicated  in  this.  But 
now  she  does  stand  implicated  in  this  horrible 
betrayal  of  you." 

"Heavens!  how  terrible!  It  must  be  im- 
possible. Oh,  Sir !  we  have  lived  together  and 
loved  one  another  from  childhood.  She  knows 
all  my  heart,  as  I  know  hers.  How  can  it  be  ? 
Perhaps  in  her  confusion  she  has  imagined  her- 
self in  Naples." 

"  No,"  said  Obed,  sternly.  "  I  have  told  you 
about  the  post-marks. " 

"  Oh,  Sir !  perhaps  her  mind  was  wandering 
after  the  sufl'ering  of  that  sea  voyage. " 

"But  she  never  had  any  voyage,"  said  Obed 
Chute,  grimly.  "  This  letter  was  written  by  her 
somewhere  with  the  intention  of  making  you  be- 
lieve that  she  was  in  Naples.  It  was  mailed  here. 
If  she  had  landed  in  Palermo  or  any  other  place 
you  would  have  had  some  sign  of  it.  But  see — 
there  is  not  a  sign.  Nothing  but  '  Naples'  is 
here,  inside  and  out — nothing  but  'Naples;' 
and  she  never  came  to  Naples !  She  wrote  this 
to  bring  you  here. " 

"Oh,  my  God!  how  severely  you  judge  her! 
You  will  drive  me  mad  by  insinuating  such  fright- 
ful suspicions.  How  is  it  possible  that  one  whom 
I  know  so  well  and  love  so  dearly  could  be  such 
a  demon  as  this ?     It  can  not  be." 

"Listen,  my  child,"  said  Obed  Chute,  ten- 
derly. "Strengthen  yourself.  You  have  had 
much  to  bear  in  your  young  life,  but  this  is 
easier  to  bear  than  that  was  which  you  must 
have  suffered  that  morning  when  you  first  woke 
and  found  the  water  in  your  cabin.  Tell  me — 
in  that  hour  when  you  rushed  up  on  deck  and 
saw  that  you  were  betrayed — in  that  hour — did 
no  thought  come  to  your  mind  that  there  was 
some  other  than  Gualtier  who  brought  this  upon 
you?" 

Zillah  looked  at  him  with  a  frightened  face, 
and  said  not  a  word. 


'"F^TwrtT 


140 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


"  Better  to  face  the  worst.  IM  the  truth  be 
known,  and  face  it,  whatever  it  is.  Look,  now. 
She  wrote  tliis  letter  whicli  brought  you  here — 
this  letter  —  every  word  of  which  is  a  lie ;  she 
it  was  who  sent  Gualtier  to  you  to  bring  you 
here ;  she  it  was  who  recommended  to  you  that 
miscreant  who  betrayed  you,  on  whose  tracks 
the  police  of  France  and  Italy  are  already  set. 
How  do  you  suppose  she  will  appear  in  the  eyes 
of  the  French  police?     Guilty,  or  not  guilty?" 

Zillah  muttered  some  inarticulate  words,  and 
then  suddenly  gasped  out,  "But  the  hat  and 
the  basket  found  by  the  fishermen  ?" 

"Decoys — common  tricks," said  Obed  Chute, 
scornfully.  "  Clumsy  enough,  but  in  this  case 
successful. " 

Zillah  groaned,  and  buried  her  face  in  her 
hands. 

A  long  silence  followed. 

"My  poor  child,"  said  Obed  Chute  at  last, 
"  I  have  been  all  the  day  making  inquiries  every 
where,  and  have  already  engaged  the  police  to 
search  out  this  mystery.  There  is  one  thing 
yet,  however,  which  I  wish  to  know,  and  you 
only  can  tell  it.  I  am  sorry  to  have  to  talk  in 
this  way,  and  give  you  any  new  troubles,  but  it 
is  for  your  sake  only,  and  for  your  sake  there  is 
nothing  which  I  would  not  do.  Will  you  an- 
swer me  one  question  ?" 

Zillah  looked  up.  Her  face  had  now  grown 
calm.  The  agitation  had  passed.  The  first 
shock  was  over,  but  this  calm  .vhich  followed 
was  the  calm  of  fixed  grief — a  grief  too  deep 
for  tears. 

"My  question  is  this,  and  it  is  a  very  im- 
portant one:  Do  you  know,  or  can  you  con- 
ceive of  any  motive  which  could  have  actuated 
this  person  to  plot  against  you  in  this  way  ?" 

"I  do  not." 

"Think." 

Zillah  thought  earnestly.  She  recalled  the 
past,  in  which  Hilda  had  always  been  so  de- 
voted ;  she  thought  of  the  dying  Earl  by  whose 
bedside  she  had  stood  so  faithfully  ;  she  thought 
of  her  deep  sympathy  with  her  when  the  writ- 
ings were  found  in  her  father's  desk ;  she  thought 
of  that  deeper  sympathy  which  she  had  manifest- 
ed when  Guy's  letter  was  opened ;  she  thought  of 
her  noble  devotion  in  giving  up  all  for  her  and  fol- 
lowing her  into  seclusion ;  she  thought  of  their 
happy  life  in  that  quiet  little  sea-side  cottage.  As 
all  these  memories  rose  before  her  the  idea  of 
Hilda  being  a  traitor  seemed  more  impossible 
than  ever.  But  she  no  longer  uttered  any  indig- 
nant remonstrance. 

"I  am  bewildered,"  she  said.  "I  can  think 
of  nothing  but  love  and  fidelity  in  connection 
with  her.  All  our  lives  she  has  lived  with  me 
and  loved  me.  I  can  not  think  of  any  imagina- 
ble motive.  I  can  imagine  that  she,  like  myself, 
is  the  victim  of  some  one  else,  but  not  that  she  can 
do  any  thing  else  than  love  me." 

"  Yet  she  wrote  that  letter  which  is  the  cause 
of  all  your  grief.  Tell  me,"  said  he,  after  a 
pause,  ' '  has  she  money  of  her  own  ?" 

"  Yes — enough  for  her  support." 

" Is  she  your  sister?" 

Zillah  seemed  startled. 

"  I  do  not  wish  to  intrude  into  your  confidence 
— I  only  ask  this  to  gain  some  light  while  I  am 
groping  in  the  dark." 

"She  is  not.     She  is  no  relation.     But  she 


has  lived  with  me  all  my  life,  and  is  the  same  as 
a  sister." 

"  Does  she  treat  you  as  her  equal  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Zillah,  with  some  hesitation, 
"thatis— of  late." 

"  But  you  have  been  her  superior  until  of  late  ?" 

"Yes." 

"Would  you  have  any  objection  to  tell  her 
name?" 

"Yes,"  said  Zillah;  "  I  can  not  tell  it.  I  will 
tell  this  much  :  Lorton  is  an  assumed  name.  It 
belongs  neither  to  her  nor  to  me.  My  name  is  not 
Lorton." 

"I  knew  that,"  said  Obed  Chute.  "I  hope 
you  will  forgive  me.  It  was  not  curiosity.  I 
wished  to  investigate  this  to  the  bottom  ;  but  I 
am  satisfied — 1  respect  your  secret.  Will  you 
forgive  me  for  tiie  i)ain  I  have  caused  you  ?" 

Zillah  placed  her  cold  hand  in  his,  and  said : 

"My  friend,  do  not  speak  so.  It  hurts  me 
to  have  you  ask  my  forgiveness." 

Obed  Chute's  face  beamed  with  pleasure. 

"  My  poor  child,"  he  said,  "you  must  go  and 
rest  yourself.  Go  and  sleep ;  perhaps  you  will 
be  better  for  it." 

And  Zillah  dragged  herself  out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

OBED   ON   THE   RAMPAGE. 

A  LONO  illness  was  the  immediate  result  of  so 
much  excitement,  suffering,  and  grief.  Gradu- 
ally, however,  Zillah  struggled  through  it;  and 
at  last,  under  the  genial  sky  of  Southern  Italy, 
she  began  to  regain  her  usual  health.  The  kind- 
ness of  her  friends  was  unfaltering  and  inces- 
sant. Through  this  she  was  saved,  and  it  was 
Obed's  sister  who  brought  her  back  from  the 
clutches  of  fever  and  the  jaws  of  death.  She 
had  as  tender  a  heart  as  her  brother,  and  had 
come  to  love  as  a  sister  or  a  daughter  this  poor, 
friendless,  childlike  girl,  who  had  been  thrown 
upon  their  hands  in  so  extraordinary  a  manner. 
Brought  up  in  that  puritanical  school  which  is 
perpetually  on  the  look-out  for  "special  provi- 
dences," she  regarded  Zillah's  arrival  among 
them  as  the  most  marked  special  providence 
which  she  had  ever  known,  and  never  ceased  to 
affinn  that  something  wonderful  was  destined  to 
come  of  all  this.  Around  this  faithful,  noble- 
hearted,  puritanical  dame,  Zillah's  affections 
twined  themselves  with  something  like  filial  ten- 
derness, and  she  learned  in  the  course  of  her  ill- 
ness to  love  that  simple,  straightforward,  but 
high-souled  woman,  whose  love  she  had  already 
won.  Hitherto  she  had  associated  the  practice 
of  chivalrous  principles  and  the  grand  code  of 
honor  exclusively  with  lofty  gentlemen  like  the 
Earl  and  her  father,  or  with  titled  dames ;  now, 
however,  she  learned  that  here,  in  Obed  Chute, 
there  was  as  fine  an  instinct  of  honor,  as  delicate 
a  sentiment  of  loyalty  to  friendship,  as  refined  a 
spirit  of  knight-errantry,  as  strong  a  zeal  to  suc- 
cor the  weak  and  to  become  the  champion  of  the 
oppressed,  and  as  profound  a  loathing  for  all  that 
is  base  and  mean,  as  in  either  of  those  grand 
old  gentlemen  by  whom  her  character  had  been 
moulded.  Had  Obed  Chute  been  born  an  En- 
glish lord  his  manners  might  have  had  a  finer 
polish,  but  no  training  known  among  the  sons 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


141 


of  men  could  have  given  him  a  truer  apprecia- 
tion of  all  that  in  noble  and  lionorablo  niid 
eliivalroui  This  man,  whoso  life  had  Ix'cn 
patised  in  ..hat  Zillali  considered  as  "vulvar 
trade,"  seemed  to  tier  to  Inive  a  nature  an  )iure 
and  ns  elevated  as  that  of  tlio  Chevalier  Bayard, 
that  hero  .lan.i  /leur  et  sans  rK/troc/ie. 

Obed,  as  has  already  been  seen,  had  a  weak- 
ness for  Neapolitan  life,  and  felt  in  his  inmost 
soul  that  strange  fascination  which  this  city  pos- 
sesses, lie  had  traversed  every  nook  and  corner 
of  Naples,  and  had  visited,  with  a  strange  mix- 
ture of  enthusiasm  and  practical  observation,  all 
its  environs.  In  the  course  of  his  wanderings 
he  had  fallen  in  with  a  party  of  his  countrymen, 
all  of  whom  were  kindred  spirits,  and  who  hailed 
his  advent  among  them  with  universal  apprecia- 
tion. Without  in  any  way  neglecting  Zillah,  he 
joined  himself  to  these  new  friends,  and  accom- 
panied them  in  many  an  excursion  into  the  coun- 
try about  Naples — to  Capua,  to  Cumas,  to  Paes- 
tum,  and  to  many  other  places.  To  some  of 
these  places  it  was  dangerous  to  go  in  these  un- 
settled times  ;  but  this  i)arty  laughed  at  dangers. 
They  had  acquired  a  good-natured  contempt  for 
Italians  and  Italian  courage ;  and  as  each  man, 
in  spite  of  the  Neapolitan  laws,  carried  his  re- 
volver, they  were  accustomed  to  venture  any 
where  with  the  most  careless  ease,  and  the  most 
profound  indifference  to  any  possible  danger. 
In  fact,  any  approach  to  danger  they  would  have 
hailed  with  joy,  and  to  their  adventurous  temper 
the  appearance  of  a  gang  of  bandits  would  have 
been  the  greatest  blessing  which  this  land  could 
afford. 

The  whole  country  was  in  a  most  disturbed 
condition.  The  Lombard  war  had  diffused  a 
deep  excitement  among  all  classes.  Every  day 
new  rumors  arose,  and  throughout  the  Neapoli- 
tan dominions  the  population  were  filled  with 
strange  vague  desires.  The  government  itself 
was  demoralized — one  day  exerting  its  utmost 
power  in  the  most  repressive  measures,  and  on 
the  next  recalling  its  own  acts,  and  retreating  in 
fear  from  the  position  which  it  had  taken  up. 
The  troops  were  as  agitated  as  the  people.  It 
was  felt  that  in  case  of  an  attempt  at  revolution 
tliey  could  not  be  relied  upon.  In  the  midst  of 
all  other  fears  one  was  predominant,  and  was  all 
comprised  in  one  magic  word — the  name  of  that 
one  ir.an  who  alone,  in  our  age,  has  shown 
himself  able  to  draw  nations  after  him,  and  by 
the  spell  of  his  presence  to  paralyze  the  efforts 
of  kings.     That  one  word  was  "Garibaldi." 

What  he  was,  or  what  he  was  to  do,  were 
things  which  were  but  little  known  to  these  igno- 
rant Neapolitans.  They  simply  accepted  the 
name  as  the  symbol  of  some  great  change  by 
which  all  were  to  be  benefited.  He  was,  in  their 
thoughts,  half  hero,  half  Messiah,  before  whom 
all  opi)osing  armies  should  melt  away,  and  by 
whom  all  wrongs  should  be  redressed.  Through 
the  heart  of  this  agitated  mass  there  penetrated 
the  innumerable  ramifications  of  secret  societies, 
whose  agents  guided,  directed,  and  intensified 
the  prevalent  excitement.  These  were  the  men 
who  originated  those  daily  rumors  which  threw 
both  government  and  people  into  a  fever  of  agita- 
tion ;  who  taught  new  hopes  and  new  desires  to 
the  most  degraded  population  of  Christendom, 
and  inspired  even  the  lazaroni  with  wild  ideas  of 
human  rights — of  liberty,  fraternity,  and  equal- 


ity. These  agents  had  a  far-reaching  purpose, 
and  to  accomplish  this  they  worked  steadily,  in 
all  parts  and  among  all  classes,  until  at  last  the 
whole  state  was  ripe  for  some  vast  revolution, 
i^uch  was  the  condition  of  the  people  among 
whom  Obed  and  his  Irijiids  pursued  their  pleas- 
ures. 

The  party  vith  which  Obed  had  connected 
himself  was  a  varied  one.  There  were  two  offi- 
cers from  those  "  Yankee  frigates"  which  he  had 
buried  in  the  teeth  of  the  police  ogent  at  the 
Hotel  de  I'Europe ;  two  young  fellows  fresh  from 
Harvard,  and  on  their  way  to  Heidelberg,  who 
had  come  direct  from  New  York  to  Na])lL»,  and 
were  in  no  huriy  to  leave ;  a  iSoutherner,  fiesh 
from  a  South  Carolina  plantation,  making  his 
firsv  tour  in  Europe ;  a  Cincinnati  lawyer ;  and 
a  Boston  clergyman  traveling  for  bis  health,  to 
recruit  which  he  had  been  sent  away  by  his  lov- 
ing congregation.  With  all  these  Obed  at  once 
fraternized,  and  soon  became  the  acknowledged 
leader,  though,  as  he  could  not  speak  Italian,  he 
was  compelled  to  delegate  all  quarrels  with  the 
natives  to  the  two  lleidelbergians,  who  had 
studied  Italian  on  their  way  out,  and  had  aired 
it  very  extensively  since  their  arrival. 

Having  exhausted  the  land  excursions,  the 
party  obtained  a  yacht,  in  which  they  intended 
to  make  the  circuit  of  the  bay.  On  their  first 
voyage  they  went  aroimd  its  whole  extent,  and 
then,  rounding  the  island  of  Capri,  they  sailed 
along  the  coast  to  the  southeast  without  any 
very  definite  purpose. 

The  party  presented  a  singular  appearance. 
All  were  dressed  in  the  most  careless  manner, 
consulting  convenience  without  any  regard  to 
fashion.  The  Heidelbergians  had  made  their 
appearance  in  red  flannel  thirts  and  broad- 
brimmed  felt  hats,  which  excited  such  admira- 
tion that  the  others  at  once  determined  to  equal 
them.  Obed,  the  officers,  and  the  South  Caro- 
linian went  oil',  and  soon  returned  with  red  flan- 
nel shirts  and  wide-awake  hats  of  their  own,  for 
which  they  soon  exchanged  their  more  correct 
costume.  The  lawyer  and  the  clergyman  com- 
promised the  matter  by  donning  reefing  jackets ; 
and  thus  the  whole  party  finally  set  out,  and  in 
this  attire  they  made  their  cruise,  with  many 
loud  laughs  at  the  strange  transformation  which 
a  change  of  dress  had  made  in  each  other's  ap- 
pearance. 

In  this  way  they  made  the  circuit  of  the  bay, 
and  proceeded  along  the  coast  until  they  came 
opposite  to  Salerno.  It  was  already  four  o'clock, 
and  as  they  could  not  get  back  to  Naples  that 
day  they  decided  to  land  at  this  historic  town, 
with  the  hope  that  they  might  be  rewarded  by 
some  adventure.  The  yacht,  therefore,  was 
headed  toward  the  town,  and  flew  rapidly  over 
lae  waves  to  her  destination. 

On  rounding  a  headland  which  lay  between 
them  and  the  town  their  progress  was  slow. 
As  they  moved  toward  the  harbor  they  sat  lazily 
watching  the  white  houses  as  they  stretched 
along  the  winding  beach,  and  the  Boston  clergy- 
man, who  seemed  to  be  well  up  in  his  medieval 
histoiy,  gave  them  an  account  of  the  former  glo- 
ries of  this  place,  when  its  university  was  the 
chief  medical  school  of  Europe,  and  Arabian 
and  Jewish  professors  taugh:.  to  Christian  stu- 
dents the  mysteries  of  science.  With  their  at- 
tention thus  divided  between  the  learned  disser- 


142 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


tation  of  the  clcrRTttiati  and  the  charms  of  the 
town,  they  approached  their  destination. 

It  was  not  until  they  had  come  (piitu  near  that 
they  noticed  an  unusual  crowd  along  the  shore. 
When  they  did  notice  it  they  at  Hrst  supposed 
that  it  might  he  one  of  those  innumerable  saints' 
days  which  are  so  common  in  Italy.  Now,  as 
they  drew  nearer,  they  noticed  that  the  attention 
of  the  crowd  was  turned  to  themselves.  This 
excited  their  wonder  at  first,  but  after  a  time 
they  thought  that  in  so  dull  a  place  as  Salerno 
the  arrival  of  a  yacht  was  sufficient  to  excite  cu- 
riosity, and  with  this  idea  many  jokes  were 
bandied  about.  At  length  they  approached  the 
principal  wharf  of  the  place,  and  directed  the 
yacht  toward  it.  As  they  did  so  they  noticed 
a  universal  movement  on  the  part  of  the  crowd, 
who  made  a  rush  toward  tiie  wharf,  and  in  a 
short  time  filled  it  completely.  Not  even  the 
most  extravagant  ideas  of  Italian  laziness  and 
curiosity  could  account  for  this  intense  interest 
in  the  movements  of  an  ordinary  yacht ;  and  so 
our  Americans  soon  found  themselves  lost  in  an 
abyss  of  wonder. 

Why  should  they  be  so  stared  at?  Why 
should  the  whole  population  of  Salerno  thus  turn 
out,  and  make  a  wild  rush  to  the  wharf  at  which 
they  were  to  land  ?  It  was  strange ;  it  was  in- 
explicable ;  it  was  also  embarrassing.  Not  even 
the  strongest  curiosity  could  account  for  such 
excitement  as  this. 

"What  'n  thunder  does  it  all  mean?"  said 
Obed,  after  a  long  silence. 

"There's  something  up,"  said  the  Cincinnati 
lawyer,  sententiously. 

"  Perhaps  it  is  a  repetition  of  the  landing  at 
Naples  on  a  grander  scale,"  said  the  clergyman. 
"  I  remember  when  I  landed  there  at  least  fifty 
lazaroni  followed  me  to  carry  my  carpet-bag." 

"Fifty?"  cried  one  of  the  Heidelbergians. 
"  Why,  there  are  five  hundred  after  us  !" 

"But  these  are  not  lazaroui,"  said  Obed. 
' '  Look  at  that  crowd !  Did  you  ever  sec  a  more 
respectable  one  ?" 

In  truth,  the  crowd  was  in  the  highest  degne 
respectable.  There  were  some  workmen,  and 
some  lazaroni.  But  the  greater  number  con- 
sisted of  well-dressed  people,  among  whom  were 
intermingled  priests  and  soldiers,  and  even  wo- 
men. All  these,  whatever  their  rank,  bore  in 
their  faces  an  expression  of  the  intensest  curios- 
ity and  interest.  The  expression  was  unmistak- 
able, and  as  the  yacht  came  nearer,  those  on 
board  were  able  to  see  that  they  were  the  objects 
of  no  common  attention.  If  they  had  doubted 
this,  this  doubt  was  soon  dispelled ;  for  as  the 
yacht  grazed  the  wharf  a  movement  took  place 
among  the  crowd,  and  a  confused  cry  of  ap- 
plause arose. 

For  such  a  welcome  as  this  the  yachting  party 
were  certainly  not  prepared.  All  looked  up  in 
amazement,  with  the  exception  of  Obed.  He 
alone  was  found  equal  to  the  occasion.  With- 
out stopping  to  consider  what  the  cause  of  such 
a  reception  might  be,  he  was  simply  conscious 
of  an  act  of  public  good-will,  and  prepared  to 
respond  in  a  fitting  manner.  He  was  standing 
on  the  prow  at  the  time,  and  drawing  his  tall 
form  to  its  full  height,  he  regarded  the  crowd  for 
a  moment  with  a  benignant  smile ;  after  which 
he  removed  his  hat  and  bowed  with  great  em- 
preasetnent. 


At  this  there  aroxo  another  shout  of  applause 
from  the  whole  crowd,  which  completed  the 
amazement  of  the  tourists.  Meanwhile  the 
yacht  swung  up  close  to  the  wharf,  and  as  there 
was  nothing  else  to  be  done  they  prepared  to 
land,  leaving  her  in  charge  of  her  crew,  which  con- 
sisted of  several  sailors  from  one  of  the  Ameri- 
can frigates.  The  blue  shirts  of  these  fellows 
formed  a  pleasing  contrast  to  the  red  shirts  and 
reefing  jackets  of  the  others,  and  the  crowd  on 
the  wharf  seemed  to  feel  an  indiscriminate  ad- 
miration for  the  crew  as  well  as  for  the  masters. 
Such  attentions  were  certainly  somewhat  em- 
barrassing, and  presented  to  these  adventurous 
spirits  a  novel  kind  of  difficulty;  but  whether 
novel  or  not,  there  was  now  no  honorable  escajjc 
from  it,  and  they  had  to  encounter  it  boldly  by 
plunging  into  the  midst  of  the  crowd.  So  they 
hinded  —  eight  as  singular  figures  as  ever  dis- 
turbed the  repose  of  this  peaceful  town  of  Saler- 
no. Obed  headed  the  procession,  dressed  in  a 
red  shirt  with  black  trowsers,  and  a  scarf  tied 
round  his  waist,  while  a  broad-brimmed  felt  hat 
shaded  his  expansive  forehead.  His  tall  form, 
his  broad  shoulders,  his  sinewy  frame,  made  him 
by  far  the  most  conspicuous  member  of  this  com- 
pany, and  attracted  to  him  the  chief  admiration 
of  the  spectators.  Low,  murmured  words  arose 
as  he  passed  amidst  them,  expressive  of  the  pro- 
found impression  which  had  been  produced  by 
the  sight  of  his  magnificent  physique.  After 
hirfi  came  the  others  in  Indian  file ;  for  the  crowd 
was  dense,  and  only  parted  sufficiently  to  allow 
of  the  progress  of  one  man  at  a  time.  'I'he 
Southerner  came  next  to  Obed,  then  the  Heidel- 
bergians, then  the  naval  officers,  while  the  cler- 
gyman and  the  Cincinnati  lawyer,  in  their  pic- 
turesque pea-jackets,  brought  up  the  rear.  Even 
in  a  wide-awake  American  town  such  a  com- 
pany would  have  attracted  attention ;  how  much 
more  so  in  this  sleepy,  secluded,  quiet,  Italian 
town !  especially  at  such  a  time,  when  all  men 
every  where  were  on  the  look-out  for  great  enter- 
prises. 

Obed  marched  on  with  his  friends  till  they  left 
the  wharf  and  were  able  to  walk  on  together 
more  closely.  The  crowd  followed.  The  Amer- 
icans took  the  middle  of  the  street,  and  walked 
up  into  the  town  through  what  seemed  the  prin- 
cipal thoroughfare.  The  crowd  pressed  after 
thern,  showing  no  decrease  whatever  in  their  ar- 
dent curiosity,  yet  without  making  any  noisy 
demonstrations.  They  seemed  like  men  who 
were  possessed  by  some  conviction  as  to  the 
character  of  these  strangers,  and  were  in  full 
sympathy  with  them,  but  were  waiting  to  see 
what  they  might  do.  The  Americans,  on  their 
side,  were  more  and  more  surprised  at  every 
step,  and  could  not  imagine  any  cause  whatever 
for  so  very  singular  a  reception.  They  did  not 
even  know  whether  to  view  it  as  a  hostile  dem- 
onstration, or  as  a  sort  of  triumphant  reception. 
They  could  not  imagine  what  they  had  done 
which  might  merit  either  the  one  or  the  other. 
All  that  was  left  for  them  to  do,  therefore,  they 
did ;  and  that  means,  they  accepted  the  situa- 
tion, and  walked  along  intent  only  upon  the  most 
prosaic  of  purposes — the  discovery  of  a  hotel. 
At  length,  after  a  few  minutes'  walk,  they  found 
the  object  of  their  search  in  a  large  stucco  edi- 
fice which  bore  the  proud  title  of  "Hotel  de 
rUnivera"  in  French.     Into  this  they  turned, 


TlIE  CRYPTOGUAM. 


148 


RCokinR  rcftiRO  ntid  rnfrcshment.  The  crowd 
without  ro8|)c(;te(l  their  sccluHion.  They  did  not, 
pour  into  tho  hotel  nnd  nil  it  to  overflowing  from 
top  to  bottom,  hut  Him'il''  stood  ontHide,  in  front, 
in  a  densely  pucke<l  mims,  from  which  arose  con- 
Mtantly  tho  deep  hum  of  ournest,  animated,  and 
eager  converHation. 

On  entering  they  were  accosted  hy  tho  lond- 
lord,  who  received  them  with  the  utmost  ob- 
sequiousness, and  a  devotion  which  was  abso- 
lute. He  informed  them  that  thi;  whole  hotel 
was  at  their  disposal,  and  wished  to  know  at  what 
time  their  excellencieH  would  be  pleased  to  dine. 
Their  excellencies  informed  him,  through  the 
medium  of  tho  I  leidelbergians,  that  they  would 
bo  pleased  to  dine  as  soon  as  possible ;  where- 
upon tho  landlord  led  them  to  a  large  upper 
room  and  bowed  himself  out. 

Their  mom  looked  out  upon  the  street.  There 
wos  a  bnkony  in  front  of  tho  windows ;  and,  as 
they  sat  there  waiting,  they  could  see  the 
dense  crowd  as  it  stood  in  front  of  the  hotel — 
quiet,  orderly,  waiting  patiently ;  yet  waiting  for 
what?  That  was  the  problem.  Jt  was  so  knot- 
ty a  problem  that  it  engaged  all  their  thoughts 
and  discussions  while  they  were  waiting  for 
dinner,  and  while  thoy  were  eating  their  dinner. 
At  last  that  solemn  meal  was  over,  and  they 
arose  refreshed;  but  the  peaceful  satisfaction 
that  generally  ensues  after  such  an  important 
meal  was  now  very  seriously  disturbed,  in  their 
case,  by  the  singular  nature  of  their  situation. 
There  was  the  crowd  outside  still,  though  it  was 
already  dusk. 

"  I  think,"  saidObed,  "that  I'll  step  out  and 
see  what  is  going  on.  I'll  just  look  around,  you 
know." 

Saying  this,  Obed  passed  through  the  open 
window,  and  went  out  on  the  balcony.  His  ap- 
pearance was  the  cause  of  an  immense  sensation. 
For  a  moment  the  crowd  was  hushed,  and  a 
thousand  eyes  were  fixed  in  awe  and  admiration 
upon  his  colossal  form.  Then  the  silence  was 
suddenly  broken  by  loud,  long,  ond  wild  accla- 
mations, "  Ftm  to  Liherta/"  "  FtVo  la  Re- 
jmhtical"  ''Viva  C Italia T  "Viva  Vittore 
Evivmnueh  !"  "  Viva  Garibaldi .'" 

This  last  word  was  caught  up  with  a  kind  of 
mad  enthusiasm,  and  passed  from  mouth  to 
mouth  till  it  drowned  all  other  cries. 

"What'n  thunder's  all  this?"  cried  Obed, 
putting  his  head  into  tho  room,  and  looking  at 
the  Heidelbergians.  "See  here — come  out 
here,"  he  continued,  "and  find  out  what  in  the 
name  of  goodness  it  all  means,  for  I'll  be  durned 
if  I  can  make  head  or  tail  of  it. " 

At  this  appeal  the  Heidelbergians  stepped 
out,  and  after  them  came  the  naval  officers, 
while  the  rest  followed,  till  the  whole  eight  stood 
on  the  balcony. 

Their  appearance  was  greeted  with  a  thunder 
of  applause. 

Obed  knew  not  what  it  all  meant,  nor  did  any 
of  the  others ;  but  as  he  was  the  acknowledged 
leader  he  felt  upon  him  the  responsibility  of  his 
situation,  and  so,  with  this  feeling  animating 
him,  he  responded  to  the  salutation  of  the  crowd 
by  a  low  bow. 

It  was  now  dusk,  and  the  tvilight  of  this 
southern  climate  was  rapidly  deepening,  when 
suddenly  tho  Americans  were  aware  of  a  sound 
in  the  distance  like  the  galloping  of  horses.    The 


soimd  seemed  to  dtriko  tho  crowd  below  at  the 
same  m<iment.  Oies  arose,  and  they  fell  back 
(piickly  on  either  side  of  the  road,  leaving  a 
broad  path  in  their  midst.  Tho  Americans  did 
not  have  a  long  time  loft  to  them  for  conjecture 
or  for  wonder.  The  sounds  drew  nearer  and 
nearer,  until  at  Inst,  through  the  gloom,  a  body 
of  dragoons  were  j)lainly  seen  gallojiing  dowii 
the  street.  They  dashed  through  the  crowd, 
they  reined  in  their  horses  in  front  of  the  hotel, 
and,  at  the  sharp  word  of  command  from  their 
leader,  a  numl)er  of  them  dismounted,  and  fol- 
lowed him  inside,  while  the  rest  remained  with- 
out. 

The  crowd  stood  breathless  and  mute.  Tho 
Americans  saw  in  this  a  very  singidar  variation 
to  the  events  of  the  evening,  and,  as  they  coidd 
no  more  account  for  this  than  for  those  which 
had  preceded  it,  they  waited  to  see  the  end. 

They  did  not  have  to  wait  long. 

A  noiso  in  tho  room  which  they  had  left 
roused  them.  I^ooking  in  they  saw  about  a 
dozen  dragoons  with  tho  captain  and  tho  land- 
lord. The  dragoons  had  arranged  themselves  in 
lino  at  the  word  of  command,  and  the  liindlord 
stood  with  a  terror-stricken  face  beside  the 
captain. 

"Ah!"  said  Obed,  who  had  looked  through 
the  window  into  the  room,  "this  looks  serious. 
There's  some  absurd  mistake  somewhere,  but 
just  now  it  does  seem  as  though  they  want  us,  so 
I  move  that  we  go  in  and  show  ourselves." 

Saying  this  he  entered  the  room,  followed  by 
the  others,  and  the  eight  Americans  ranged 
themselves  quietly  opposite  the  dragoons.  The 
sight  of  these  red-shirted  strangers  produced  a 
very  peculiar  eflfect  on  tho  soldiers,  as  was  evi- 
dent by  their  faces  and  their  looks ;  and  the 
captain,  as  he  regarded  the  formidable  propor- 
tions of  Obed,  seemed  somewhat  overawed. 
But  he  soon  overcame  his  emotion,  and,  step- 
ping forward,  ho  exclaimed : 

"Sietenostri  prigionieri.     Rendetevi." 

"What's  that  he  says?"  asked  Obed. 

"  lie  says  we're  his  prisoners,"  said  one  of  the 
Ileidelbergians,  "and  calls  on  us  to  surrender." 

"Tell  him,"  said  Obed,  unconsciously  parody- 
ing Leonidas — "Tell  him  to  come  on  and  take 
us." 

The  Heidelbergian  translated  this  verbatim. 

The  captain  looked  puzzled. 

"Boys,"  said  Obed,  "you  may  as  well  get 
your  revolvers  ready." 

At  this  quiet  hint  every  one  of  the  Americans, 
including  even  the  Boston  clergyman,  drew 
forth  his  revolver,  holding  it  carelessly,  yet  in 
such  a  very  handy  fashion  that  the  captain  of 
tho  dragoons  looked  aghast. 

"I  will  have  no  resistance,"  said  he.  " Sur- 
render, or  you  will  be  shot  down." 

"Ila,  ha!"  said  the  Heidelbergian.  "Do 
you  see  our  revolvers?  Do  you  think  that  we 
are  the  men  to  surrender?" 

"I  have  fifty  dragoons  outside,"  said  the 
officer. 

"Very  well,  we  have  forty-eight  shots  to  your 
fifty,"  said  the  Heidelbergian,  whoso  Italian,  on 
this  occasion,  "came  out  uncommonly  strong," 
as  Obed  afterward  said  when  the  conversation 
was  narrated  to  him. 

"I  am  commanded  to  arrest  you,"  said  the 
officer. 


W.f.fL>  W.'Jf  ".Ml  .-.J^W"  -'>fl5^|ff»1-^»J",'»  ^C'.IW  W  .11  PIIJIIIP  J  ';  'fT  ■ .'  ^" 


' -  Iff  ':>-'^'"' " ^ ■  ■' '. "flF.' ■'-' *■, m n wij ^.*^k  awiv  \jf^\i^^9. ^'<v^<uvif^j < . 


144 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


"  Well,  go  back  and  say  that  you  tried,  and 
couldn't  do  it,"  said  the  ileidelberginn. 

"  Your  blood  will  be  on  your  own  heads." 

"Pardon  me;  some  of  it  will  be  on  yours, 
and  some  of  your  own  blood  also,"  retoited  the 
Heidelbergian,  mildly. 

"Advance!"  cried  the  officer  to  his  soldiers. 
"Arrest  these  men." 

The  soldiers  looked  tt  their  captain,  then  at 
the  Americans,  then  at  their  captain  again,  then 
at  the  Americans,  and  the  end  of  it  was  that 
they  did  not  move. 

"Arrest  them  !"  roared  the  officer. 

The  Americans  stood  opposite  with  their  re- 
volvers leveled.  The  soldiers  stood  still.  They 
would  not  obey. 

"My  friend,"  said  the  Heidelbergian,  "if 
your  r-en  advance,  you  yourself  will  be  the  first 
to  fall,  for  I  happen  to  have  you  r  jveied  by  my 
pistol.  I  may  as  well  tell  you  that  it  has  six 
shots,  and  if  the  first  fails,  the  second  will 
not." 

The  officer  turned  pale.  He  ordered  his  men 
to  remain,  and  went  out.  After  a  few  moments 
he  returned  with  twelve  more  dragoons.  The 
Americans  still  stood  watchful,  with  their  re- 
volvers ready,  taking  aim. 

"  You  see,"  cried  the  officer,  excitedly,  "that 
you  are  overpowered.  There  are  as  many  men 
outside.  For  the  last  time  1  call  on  yoii  to  sur- 
render. If  you  do  not  I  will  give  no  quarter. 
You  need  not  try  to  resist." 

"What  is  it  that  he  says?"  asked  Obed. 

The  Heidelbergian  told  him. 

Obed  laughed. 

"Ask  him  why  he  does  not  come  and  take 
lis,"  said  lie,  grimly.  "  We  have  already  given 
him  leave  to  do  so. ' 

The  Heidelbergian  repeated  these  words. 
The  captain,  in  a  fury,  ordered  his  men  to  ad- 
vance. The  Americans  fully  expected  a;'  at- 
tack, and  stood  ready  to  pour  in  a  volley  at  the 
first  movement  on  the  part  of  the  enemy.  But 
the  enemy  did  not  move.  The  soldier^  stood 
motionless.  They  did  not  seem  afraid.  They 
seemed  rather  as  if  they  were  animated  by  some 
totally  diiferent  feeling.  It  had  been  whispered 
already  that  the  Neapolitan  army  was  unieliable. 
This  certainly  looked  like  it. 

"Cowards!"  cried  the  captain,  who  seemed 
to  think  that  their  inaction  arose  from  fear. 
"You  will  suftcr  for  this,  you  scoundrels! 
Then,  if  you  are  afraid  to  advance,  make  ready ! 
present!  fire!" 

His  command  might  as  well  have  been  ad- 
dressed to  the  winds.  The  guns  of  the  soldiers 
stood  by  their  sides.  Not  one  t '.  them  raised  his 
piece.  The  cai)tain  was  thi'.iuer-struck ;  yet  his 
surprise  was  not  greater  tt.in  that  of  the  Ameri- 
cans when  this  was  hastil .  explained  to  them  by 
the  Heidelbergians.  Evidently  there  was  disaf- 
fection among  the  soldiers  of  his  Majesty  of 
Naples  when  brought  into  the  presence  of  Red 
Shir  If 

The  captain  was  so  overwhelmed  by  this  dis- 
covery that  he  stood  like  one  paralyzed,  not 
knowing  what  to  do.  This  passive  disobedience 
on  the  part  of  his  men  was  a  thing  so  unex- 
pected that  he  was  left  helpless,  without  re- 
sources. 

Meanwhile  the  crowd  outside  had  been  in- 
tensely excited.    They  had  witnessed  the  ar- 


rival of  the  dragoons.  Tliey  had  seen  them  dis- 
mount and  enter  the  hotel  after  tiie  captain. 
They  had  seen  the  captain  come  down  after 
another  detachment.  They  had  known  nothing 
of  what  was  going  on  inside,  but  conjectured 
that  a  desperate  struggle  was  inevitable  between 
the  lied  [Shirts  and  the  dragoons.  As  an  un- 
armed crowd  they  could  offer  no  active  interven- 
tion, so  they  held  their  peace  for  a  time,  waiting 
in  breathless  suspense  for  the  result.  The  result 
seemed  long  delayed.  The  troopers  did  not 
seem  to  gain  that  immediate  victory  over  the  Red 
Shirts  which  had  been  fearfully  anticipated. 
Every  moment  seemed  to  pr.  /.pone  such  a  vic- 
tory, and  render  it  impossib'.,>.  Every  moment 
restored  the  courage  of  the  crowd,  which  at  first 
had  been  panic-stricken.  Low  murmurs  passed 
among  them,  which  deepened  into  words  of  re- 
monstrance, and  strengthened  into  cries  of  sym- 
pathy for  the  Red  Shirts ;  until,  at  last,  these 
cries  arose  to  shouts,  and  the  shouts  arose  wild 
and  high,  penetrating  to  that  upper  .oom  where 
the  assailants  confronted  their  cool  antagonists. 

The  cries  had  an  ominous  sound. 

"  V'iva  la  Liberta!"  "  Viva  la  Repuhlica!" 
''Viva  Garibaldi r 

At  the  name  Garibaldi,  a  wild  yell  of  ap- 
plause resounded  wide  and  high— a  long,  shrill 
yell,  and  the  name  was  taken  up  in  a  kind  of 
mad  fervor  till  the  shout  rose  to  a  frenzy,  acd 
nothing  was  heard  but  the  confused  outcries  of 
a  thousand  discordant  voices,  all  uttering  that 
one  grand  name,  ''Garibaldi!"  "Garibaldi!" 
"Garibaldi!" 

The  Americans  heard  it.  What  connection 
there  was  between  themselves  and  Garibaldi 
they  did  not  then  see,  hut  they  saw  that  some 
how  the  people  of  Salerno  had  associated  them 
with  the  hero  of  Italy,  and  were  sympathizing 
with  them.  Obed  Chute  himself  saw  this,  and 
understood  this,  as  that  cry  came  thundering  to 
his  ears.     He  turned  to  his  friends. 

"  Boys,"  said  he,  "  we  came  here  for  a  dinner 
and  a  night's  rest.  We've  got  the  dinner,  but  the 
night's  rest  seems  to  be  a  little  remote.  There's 
such  an  infernal  row  going  on  all  around  that,  if 
we  want  to  sleep  this  blessed  night,  we'll  have 
to  take  to  the  yacht  again,  and  turn  in  there, 
sailor  fashion.  So  I  move  that  we  adjourn  to 
that  place,  and  put  out  to  sea." 

His  proposal  was  at  once  accepted  without 
hesitation. 

"  Very  well,"  said  Obed.  "  Now  follow  me. 
March !" 

With  his  revolver  in  his  extended  hand,  Obed 
strode  toward  the  door,  followed  by  the  others. 
The  dragoons  drew  back  and  allc^ved  them  to 
pass  out  without  resistance.  They  descended 
the  stairs  into  the  hall.  As  they  appeared  at 
the  doorway  they  were  recognized  by  the  crowd, 
and  a  wild  shout  of  triumph  arose,  in  which 
nothing  was  conspicuous  but  the  name  of  Gari- 
baldi. The  mounted  dragoons  outside  did  not 
attempt  to  resist  them.  They  looked  away,  and 
did  not  seem  to  see  them  at  all.  The  crowd 
had  it  all  their  own  way.' 

Through  the  crowd  Obed  advanced,  followed 
by  his  friends,  and  led  the  way  toward  the 
yacht.  The  crowd  followed.  They  cheered ; 
they  shouted ;  they  yelled  out  defiance  at  the 
king ;  they  threw  aside  all  restraint,  and  sang 
the  Italian  version  of  the  "  Marseillaise. "   A  wild 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


145 


enthusiasm  pervaded  all,  as  though  some  great 
victory  had  been  won,  or  some  signal  triumph 
achieved.  But  amidst  all  their  shouts  and  cries 
and  applause  and  songs  one  word  was  pre-emi- 
nent, and  that  one  word  was  the  name  of 
'' Garibaldi  r 

But  the  Americans  made  no  response.  They 
marched  on  quietly  to  tiieir  yacht,  and  pushed 
off  from  the  wharf.  A  loud,  long  cheer  followed 
them  from  the  crowd,  which  stood  there  watch- 
ing their  departui-e;  and,  as  the  yicht  moved 
away,  cheer  after  cheer  arose,  which  gradually 
died  away  in  the  distance. 

They  passed  that  night  on  the  sea  instead  of 
at  the  hotel  at  (Salerno.  But  they  did  not  have 
much  sleep.  Their  wonderful  adventure  formed 
the  theme  of  discussion  all  night  long.  And  at  last 
the  only  conclusion  which  they  could  come  to  was 
this,  that  the  red-shirted  strangers  had  been  mis- 
taken for  Garibaldini ;  that  Obed  Chute  tiad 
been  accepted  as  Garibaldi  himself;  and,  finally, 
that  the  subjects  of  the  king  of  Naples,  and  his 
soldiers  also,  were  in  a  fearful  state  of  disaffection. 

Not  long  after,  when  Garibaldi  himself  passed 
through  this  very  town,  the  result  couttrmed  the 
conjectures  of  these  Americans. 


CHAPTER  XLII. 

ANOTHER  HEVELATION. 

Time  passed  on,  and  Zillah  once  more  re- 
gained something  like  her  old  spring  and  elastic- 
ity ;  yet  the  sadness  of  her  situation  was  noway 
relaxed.  In  addition  to  the  griefs  of  the  past, 
there  now  arose  the  problem  of  the  future. 
What  was  she  to  do?  Was  she  to  go  on  thus 
forever  with  these  kind  friends?  or  was  she  to 
leave  them?  The  subject  was  a  painful  and  a 
j)erplexing  one,  and  always  brought  before  her 
the  ..ter  loneliness  of  her  position  with  the  most 
distressing  distinctness.  Generally  she  fought 
against  such  feelings,  and  tried  to  dismiss  such 
thoughts,  but  it  was  difficult  to  drive  them  from 
her  mind. 

At  length  it  happened  that  all  her  funds  were 
exhausted,  and  she  felt  the  need  of  a  fresh  sup- 
ply. So  she  conferred  with  Obed  Chute,  and 
told  him  the  name  of  her  London  bankers,  aft- 
er which  he  drew  out  a  check  for  her  for  a  hun- 
<lred  pounds,  which  she  signed.  The  draft  was 
then  forwarded. 

A  fortnight  passed  away.  It  was  during  this 
interval  that  Obed  had  his  famous  Salerno  ex- 
pedition, which  ho  narrated  to  Zillah  on  his  re- 
turn, to  her  immense  delight.  Never  in  his  iife 
had  Obed  taken  such  jileasure  in  telling  a  story 
as  on  this  occasion.  Zillah's  eager  interest,  her 
animated  face,  her  sparkling  eyes,  all  encour- 
aged him  to  hope  that  there  was  yet  some  spirit 
left  in  her  in  spite  of  her  sorrows ;  and  at  length, 
at  the  narration  of  the  reception  of  the  Neajroli- 
tan's  order  to  surrender,  Zillah  burst  into  a  fit 
of  laughter  that  was  childish  in  its  abandon 
and  heartiness. 

About  a  week  or  ten  days  after  this,  Obed 
came  home  one  day  with  a  very  serious  face. 
Zillah  noticed  it  at  onco,  and  asked  him  anx- 
iously if  any  thing  had  happened. 

"My  poor  child,"  said  he,  "Tm  afraid  tnat 
there  is  more  trouble  in  store  for  you.     I  fei^red 


as  much  some  time  ago,  but  I  had  to  wait  to 
see  if  my  fears  were  true. " 

Zillah  regarded  him  fearfully,  not  knowing 
what  to  think  of  such  an  ominous  beginni.ig. 
Her  heart  told  her  that  it  had  some  reference  to 
Hilda.  Had  he  found  out  any  thin"  about  her? 
Was  she  ill?  Was  she  dying?  i'hese  were 
her  thoughts,  but  she  dared  not  put  them  Into 
"'ords. 

"  I've  kept  this  matter  to  myself  till  now," 
':ontinued  Obed;  "but  I  do  not  intend  to  keep 
it  from  you  any  longer.  I've  spoken  to  sister 
about  it,  and  she  thinks  that  you'd  better  know 
it.  At  any  rate,"  he  added,  "it  isn't  as  bad  as 
some  things  you've  borne ;  only  it  con.es  on  top 
of  the  rest,  and  seems  to  make  them  worse." 

Zillah  said  not  a  word,  but  stood  awaiting  in 
fear  this  new  blow. 

' '  Your  d  raft,  "said  Obed,  "has  been  returned. " 

"My  draft  returned?"  said  Zillah,  in  aston- 
ishment.    "  What  do  you  mean  ?" 

"I  will  tell  you  all  I  know,"  said  Obed. 
' 'There  is  villainy  at  the  bottom  of  this,  as  you 
will  see.  Your  draft  came  back  about  ten  days 
ago.  I  said  nothing  to  you  about  it,  but  took 
it  upon  myself  to  write  for  explanations.  Last 
evening  I  received  this"— and  he  drew  a  letter 
from  his  pocket.  "I've  meditated  over  it,  and 
shown  it  to  my  sister,  and  we  both  think  that 
there  are  depths  to  this  dark  plot  against  you 
which  none  of  us  as  yet  have  even  begim  to 
fathom.  I've  also  forwarded  an  account  of  this 
and  a  copy  of  this  letter  to  the  police  at  Mar- 
seilles, and  to  the  police  here,  to  assist  them  in 
their  investigations.  I'm  afraid  the  police  here 
won't  do  much,  they're  so  upset  by  their  panic 
about  Garibaldi." 

As  Obed  ended  he  handed  the  letter  to  Zillah, 
who  opened  it  without  a  word,  and  reau  as  fol- 
lows : 

"  London,  September  10, 18(59. 

"  Sir, — In  answer  to  your  favor  of  7th  instant, 
we  beg  leave  to  state  that  up  to  the  l.'ith  of  June 
last  we  held  stock  and  deposits  from  Miss  Ella 
Lorton — «'.  e.,  consols,  thirty  thousand  pounds 
(£30,000) ;  also  cash,  twelve  hundred  and  sev- 
enty-five pounds  ten  shillings  (£1275  10s.).  On 
the  15th  of  June  last  the  above-mentioned  Miss 
Ella  Lorton  appeared  in  person,  and,  with  her 
C'.n  check,  drew  out  the  cash  balance.  On 
the  1 7th  June  she  came  in  person  and  withdrew 
the  stock,  in  consols,  which  she  had  deposited 
wi'vh  us,  amounting  to  thirty  thousand  pounds 
(£30,000)  as  aforesaid.  That  it  was  Miss  Ella 
Lorton  herself  there  is  no  doubt ;  for  it  was  the 
same  lady  who  deposited  the  funds,  and  who 
has  sent  checks  to  us  from  time  to  time.'  The 
party  you  s])eak  of,  who  sent  the  check  from 
Naples,  must  be  an  impostor,  and  we  recom- 
mend you  to  hand  her  over  to  the  police. 

"  We  have  the  honor  to  be.  Sir,  your  most 
obedient  serj'ants,         Tilton  and  ""owne. 

"Odib  Chcte,  Esq." 

On  reading  this  Zillah  fell  back  into  a  chan 
as  though  she  had  been  shot,  and  sat  looking  at 
this  fatal  sheet  with  wild  eyes  and  haggard  face. 
Obed  made  an  effort  to  cry  for  help,  but  it  sound- 
ed like  a  groan.  His  sister  came  running  in, 
and  seeing  Zillah's  condition,  she  took  her  in  her 
arms. 

"Poor  child!  poor  sweet  child  I"  she  cried. 


TT 


U6 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


"  Ifn  too  mach !     It's  too  much  1    She  will  die 
if  tills  goes  on." 

Hilt  Zillah  rapidly  roused  herself.  It  wm  no 
soft  mood  that  was  over  her  now ;  it  was  not 
a  broken  "heart  that  was  now  ihreateninR  her. 
This  letter  seemed  to  throw  a  flood  of  light  over 
lier  dark  and  mysterious  ])er6ecution,  which  in 


an  instant  put  an  end  to  all  those  tender  long- 
ings after  her  loved  Hilda  which  had  consumed 
her.  Now  he'  eyes  flashed,  and  the  color  which 
had  left  her  cheeks  flushed  back  again,  mount- 
ing high  with  the  full  sweep  of  her  indignant  pas- 
sion. She  started  to  ber  feet,  her  hands  clenched, 
and  her  brows  frowning  darkly. 


MamWiOT^TC 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


147 


00 

X 

a 


at 

H 

a 


o 
o 

H 
i     >=" 


a 

o 
y 


■< 
>4 


H 


a: 

00 


S 


I     I 


"You  nre  right,"  she  said  to  Obed,  in  a  low, 
stem  voice.  "I  am  betrayed — and  she — she 
nione  has  been  my  betrayer.  She !  my  sister ! 
the  one  who  lived  on  my  father's  bounty;  who 
was  my  companion  in  childhood;  who  shared 
my  bed;  who  had  all  my  love  and  trust — she 
lias  betrayed  me !  Ah,  well,"  she  added,  witli  a 
long  sigh;  "since  it  is  so,  it  is  best  for  me  to 
know  it.  Do  not  be  grieved,  dear  friends.  Do 
not  look  so  sadly  and  so  tenderly  at  me.  I  know 
your  loving  hearts.  You,  at  least,  do  not  look 
as  though  you  believed  me  to  be  an  impostor." 

And  she  l»eld  out  her  hands  to  the  brother  and 
sister.  Obed  took  tiiat  little  hand  wiiich  she  ex- 
tended, and  pressed  it  reverently  to  his  lips. 

"Sit  down,  my  poor  ciiild,"  said  Miss  Chute, 
tenderly.  "  You  are  excited.  Try  to  be  calm, 
if  you  can." 

"  I  am  Oh....  id  I  will  bo  calm,"  said  Zillah, 
faintly. 

"  Come,"  said  Obed.  "We  will  talk  no  more 
about  it  now.  To-morrow,  or  next  day,  or  next 
week,  we  will  talk  about  it.  You  must  rest. 
You  must  drive  oat,  or  sail  out,  or  do  something. 
I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do.  I'll  order  the  yacht 
and  take  you  to  Salerno." 

Zillah  looked  at  him  with  a  faint  smile,  ap- 
preciating his  well-meant  reference  to  that  fa- 
mous town,  and  Obed  left  her  with  his  sister. 

A  week  passed,  and  Zillaii  was  not  allowed  to 
speak  of  this  subject.  But  all  the  time  she  was 
oppressed  by  a  sense  of  her  utterly  de  perate 
situation.  As  long  as  she  had  believed  herself 
rich  she  had  not  felt  altogether  helpless;  but 
now ! — now  she  foimd  herself  a  pauper,  alone  in 
the  wide  world,  a  dependent  on  tiie  kindness  of 
these  noble-hearted  friends.  What  could  she 
do?  This  could  not  go  on  forever.  What 
could  she  do^siie,  a  girl  witliout  resources? 
How  could  she  ever  support  herself?  What 
would  become  of  her  ? 

Could  she  go  back  to  that  home  from  which 
she  had  fled?  Never!  That  thought  came 
once,  and  was  instantly  scouted  as  impossible. 
Sooner  than  do  that  she  would  die  of  starvation. 
What,  then,  could  she  do  ?  Live  on  as  a  bur- 
den to  these  kind  friends?  Alas!  how  could 
she  ?  She  thought  wildly  of  being  a  governess ; 
but  what  could  she  teach  ? — she,  who  had  idled 
away  nearly  all  her  life.  Tlien  she  tliought  of 
trying  to  get  back  her  money  from  tliose  who 
had  robbed  her.  But  how  could  this  be  done  ? 
For,  to  do  this,  it  would  be  necessary  to  ob- 
tain the  help  of  Obed  Chute  ;  and,  in  that  case, 
she  would  have  to  tell  him  all.  And  could  she 
do  this  ?  Could  she  reveal  to  another  the  secret 
sorrow  of  her  life?  Could  siie  tell  him  about 
their  fatal  marriage ;  about  the  Earl ;  about 
Guy's  letter,  and  her  flight  from  home  ?  No  ; 
the.se  things  were  too  sacred  to  be  divulged  to 
any  one,  and  the  very  idea  of  making  them 
known  was  intolerable.  But  if  she  began  to 
seek  after  Hilda  it  would  be  necessary  to  tell 
her  true  name,  at  least  to  Obed  C'hute,  and  all 
about  her,  a  thing  which  would  involve  the  dis- 
closure of  all  her  secret.  It  could  not  be  done. 
Hilda  had  betrayed  her,  sought  out  her  life, 
and  robbed  her — of  this  there  no  longer  remained 
any  doubt ;  and  she  was  helpless ;  she  could 
neither  seek  after  her  rights,  nor  endeavor  to  ob- 
tain redress  for  her  wrongs. 
At  length  she  had  a  conversation  with  Obed 


Chute  about  her  draft.  She  told  him  that  when 
she  first  went  to  Tenby  her  sister  had  persuaded 
her  to  withdraw  all  her  money  from  her  former 
bankers  and  deposit  it  with  Messrs.  Tilton  and 
Browne.  Hilda  herself  had  gone  to  London  to 
have  it  done.  She  told  Obed  that  they  were 
living  in  seclusion,  that  Hilda  had  charge  of  the 
finances,  and  drew  all  the  checks.  Of  course 
Messrs.  Tilton  and  Browne  had  been  led  to  believe 
that  she  was  the  Ella  Lorton  who  had  deposited 
the  money.  In  this  way  it  was  easy  for  her, 
after  getting  her  sister  out  of  the  way,  to  obtain 
the  money  herself. 

After  Obed  Chute  heard  this  he  remained  si- 
lent for  a  long  time. 

"My  poor  child,"  said  he  at  last,  in  tones 
full  of  pity,  "you  could  not  imagine  once  what 
motive  this  Hilda  could  have  for  betraying  you. 
Here  you  have  motive  enough.  It  is  a  very  coarse 
one;  but  yet  men  have  been  betraying  one 
another  for  less  than  this  since  the  world  began. 
There  was  once  a  certain  Judas  who  carried  out 
a  plan  of  betrayal  for  a  far  smaller  figure.  But 
tell  me.  Have  you  never  associated  Gualtier 
and  Hilda  in  your  thoughts  as  partners  in  this 
devilish  plot  ?" 

"  I  see  now  that  they  must  have  been,"  said 
Zillah.     "I  can  believe  nothing  else." 

"You  have  said  that  Gaaltier  was  in  attend- 
ance on  you  for  years  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Did  yon  ever  notice  any  thing  like  friend- 
ship between  these  two  ?" 

"She  always  seemed  to  hold  herself  so  far 
above  him  that  I  do  not  see  how  they  could 
have  had  any  understanding." 

"Did  he  seem  to  speak  to  her  more  than 
to  you  ?" 

"  Not  at  all.  I  never  noticed  it.  He  accom- 
panied her  to  London,  though,  when  she  went 
about  the  money." 

"That  looks  like  confidence.  And  then  she 
sent  him  to  take  you  to  Naples  to  put  you  out  of 
the  way  ?" 

Zillah  sighed. 

"Tell  me.  Do  you  think  she  could  have  loved 
Gualtier?" 

"It  seems  absurd.  Any  thing  like  love  be- 
tween those  two"is  impossible." 

"  It's  ly  full  and  fiiTn  conviction,"  said  Olwd 
Chute,  aiier  deep  thought,  "that  this  Gualtier 
gained  your  friend's  affections,  and  he  lias  been 
the  prime  m^  -.er  m  this.  Both  of  them  must  be 
deep  ones,  though.  Yet  I  calculate  she  is  only 
a  tool  in  his  hands.  Women  will  do  any  thing 
for  love.  She  has  sacrificed  you  to  him.  It 
isn't  so  bad  a  case  as  it  first  looked. " 

"Not  so  bad!"  said  Zillah,  in  wonder. 
"  What  is  worse  than  to  betray  a  friend?" 

"  When  a  woman  betrays  a  friend  for  the 
sake  of  a  lover  she  only  does  what  women  liave 
been  engaged  in  doing  ever  since  the  world 
began.  This  Gualtier  has  betrayed  you  both — 
first  by  winning  your  friend's  love,  and  then  by 
using  her  against  you.  And  that  is  the  smart 
game  which  he  has  played  so  well  as  to  net  the 
handsome  figure  of  £30,000  sterling — one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  thousand  dollars — besides  that 
balance  of  £1200  and  upward — six  thousand 
dollars  more." 

Such  was  Obed  Chute's  idea,  and  Zillah  ac- 
cepted it  as  the  only  true  solution.     Any  other 


|.i«lf!iimji|!.  mjnii  I")  '.'»»»!mP«iwiw!iWi#Ji»^J»iii 


146 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


solution  would  force  her  to  believe  thnt  Hilda 
had  been  a  hypocrite  all  her  life — that  lier  devo- 
Hon  was  a  sham,  and  her  love  a  mockery.    (Such 
a  thing  seemed  incredible,  aiid  it  seemed  fur 
more  natural  to  her  that  Hilda  had  acted  from 
some  mad  impulse  of  love  in  obedience  to  tiie 
strong  temptation  held  out  by  a  lover.     Yes,  she 
thought,  she  had  ])laced  herself  in  his  power, 
and  did  whatever  he  told  her,  without  thinking 
of  the  consequences.     The  plot,  then,  must  be 
all  Gualtier's.     Hilda  herself  never,  never,  nev- 
er could  have  formed  such  a  plan  against  one 
who  loved  her.     iShe  could   not  have   known 
what  she  was  doing.     She  coidd  not  have  de- 
liberately sold  her  life  and  robbed  her.     So  Zil- 
lah  tried  to  think ;  but,  amidst  these  thoughts, 
there  arose   tlie   memory  of  that  letter  from 
Naples — that  picture  of  the  voyage,  every  word 
of  which  showed  such  devilish  ingenuity,  and  ' 
such  remorseless  pertinacity  in  deceiving.    Love 
may  do  much,  and  tempt  to  much,  she  thought ;  ! 
but,  after  all,  could  such  a  letter  have  emanated  : 
from  any  one  whose  heart  was  not  utterly  and  i 
wholly  bad  and  corrupt  ?    All  this  was  terrible  ! 
to  Zillah.  I 

"If  I  could  but  redress  your  wrongs,"  said 
Obed,  one  day — "  if  you  would  only  give  nie 
permission,  I  would  start  to-morrow  for  En- 
gland, and  I  would  ti'ack  this  pair  of  villains  till 
I  compelled  them  to  disgorge  their  plunder,  and 
one  of  them,  at  least,  should  make  acquaintance 
with  the  prison  hulks  or  Botany  Bay.  But  you 
will  not  let  me, "  he  added,  reproachfully. 

Zillah  looked  at  him  imploringly. 

"  I  have  a  secret,"  said  she,  "  a  secret  which 
I  dare  not  divulge.  It  involves  others.  I  have 
sacrificed  every  thing  for  this.  I  can  not  mention 
it  even  to  you.  And  now  all  is  lost,  and  I  have 
nothing.  There  is  no  help  for  it,  none."  She 
seemed  to  be  speaking  to  herself.  "For  then," 
she  continued,  "if  they  were  hunted  down, 
names  would  come  out,  and  then  all  would  be 
known.  And  rather  than  have  all  known" — her 
voice  grew  higher  and  sterner  as  she  spoke,  ex- 
pressing a  desperate  resolve — "  rather  than  have 
all  known,  I  would  die — yes,  by  a  death  as  ter- 
rible as  that  which  stared  me  in  the  face  when  I 
was  drifting  in  the  schooner !" 

Obed  Chute  looked  at  her.  Pity  was  on  his 
face.     He  held  out  his  hand  and  took  hers. 

"  It  shall  not  be  known,"  said  he.  "Keep  your 
secret.  The  time  will  cotoe  some  day  when  you 
will  be  righted.     Trust  in  God,  my  child." 

The  time  passed  on,  but  Zillah  was  now  a 
prey  to  this  new  trouble.  How  could  she  live  ? 
She  was  penniless.  Could  she  consent  to  remain 
thus  a  burden  on  kind  friends  like  these  ?  These 
thoughts  agitated  her  incessantly,  preying  upon 
her  mind,  and  never  leaving  her  by  night  or  by 
day.  She  was  helpless.  How  could  she  live? 
By  what  means  could  she  hope  to  get  a  living  ? 

Her  friends  saw  her  melancholy,  but  attrib- 
uted it  all  to  the  greater  sorrows  through  which 
she  had  passed.  Obed  Chute  thought  that  the 
Insst  cure  was  perpetual  distraction.  So  he  bus- 
ied himself  with  nn'anging  a  never-ending  series 
of  expeditions  to  all  the  charming  environs  of 
Naples.  Pompeii  and  Herculaneum  opened  be- 
fore thorn  the  wonders  of  the  ancient  world. 
Vesuvius  was  scaled,  and  its  crater  revealed  its 
awful  depths.  Baite,  Misenum,  and  Piizzuoli 
were  explored.    Piestum  showed  them  its  eternal 


temples.  They  lingered  on  the  beach  at  Salano. 
They  stood  where  never-ending  spring  abides, 
and  never-withering  flo"'ers,  in  the  vale  of  Sor- 
rento— the  fairest  s])ot  Oii  earth  ;  best  rejjresent- 
ative  of  a  lost  Paradise.  They  sailed  over  every 
part  of  that  glorious  bay,  where  earth  and  air 
and  sea  all  combine  to  bring  into  one  spot  all 
that  this  world  contains  of  beauty  and  sublimity, 
of  joyousness  and  loveliness,  of  radiance  and  of 
delight.  Yet  still,  in  spite  of  all  this,  the  dull 
weight  of  melancholy  could  not  be  removed,  but 
never  ceased  to  weigh  her  down. 

At  length  Zillah  could  control  her  feelings 
no  longer.  One  day,  softened  by  the  tender 
sympathy  and  watchful  anxiety  of  these  loving 
friends,  she  yielded  to  the  generous  promptings 
of  her  heart  and  told  them  her  trouble. 

"I  am  penniless,"  she  said,  as  she  concluded 
her  confession.  "You  are  too  generous,  and 
it  is  your  very  generosity  that  makes  it  bitter  for 
me  to  be  a  mere  dependent.  You  are  so  gener- 
ous that  I  will  ask  you  to  get  me  something  to 
do.  I  know  you  will.  There,  I  have  told  you 
all,  and  1  feel  happier  already." 

As  she  ended  a  smile  passed  over  the  face  of 
Obed  Chute  and  his  sister.  The  relief  which  they 
felt  was  infinite.     And  this  was  all ! 

"My  child,"  said  Obed  Chute,  tenderly,  "there 
are  twenty  ditlerent  things  that  I  can  say,  each  of 
which  would  put  you  perfectly  at  ease.  I  will 
content  myself,  however,  with  merely  one  or  two 
brief  remarks.  In  the  first  place  allow  me  to  state 
that  you  are  not  penniless.  Do  you  think  that 
you  are  going  to  lose  all  your  property?  No — 
by  the  Eternal !  no !  I,  Obed  C^hute,  do  declare 
that  I  will  get  it  back  some  day.  So  dismiss 
your  fears,  and  dry  your  tears,  as  the  hymn-book 
says.  Moreover,  in  the  second  place,  you  speak 
of  being  a  dependent  and  a  burden.  I  can  hard- 
ly trust  myself  to  speak  in  reply  to  that.  I  will 
leave  that  to  sister.  For  my  own  part,  I  will 
merely  say  that  you  are  our  sunshine — you  make 
our  family  circle  bright  as  gold.  To  lose  you, 
my  child,  would  be — well,  I  won't  say  what,  only 
when  you  leave  us  you  may  leave  an  order  at  the 
nearest  stone-cutter's  for  a  tombstone  for  Obed 
Chute." 

He  smiled  as  he  spoke — ^his  great  rugged  feat- 
ures all  irradiated  by  a  glow  of  enthusiasm  and 
of  happiness. 

"But  I  feel  so  dependent — such  a  burden," 
pleaded  Zillah. 

"  If  that  is  the  case,"  said  Obed  Chute,  "  then 
your  feelings  shall  be  consulted.  I  will  employ 
you.  You  shall  have  an  honorable  position. 
Among  us  the  best  ladies  in  the  land  become 
teachers.  President  Fillmore's  daughter  taught 
a  school  in  New  England.  It  is  my  purpose  now 
to  engage  you  as  governess." 

"  As  governess  ?" 

"  Yes,  for  my  children." 

"But  I  don't  know  any  thing." 

"I  don't  care — I'm  going  to  engage  you  as 
governess  al!  the  same.  Sister  teaches  them  the 
rudiments.  What  1  want  you  to  teach  them  is 
music." 

"  Music  ?    I'm  such  a  wretched  player." 

"  You  play  well  enough  for  me — well  enough 
to  teach  them ;  and  the  beauty  of  it  is,  even  if 
you  don't  play  well  now,  you  soon  will.  Doesn't 
Franklin  or  somebody  say  that  one  learns  by 
teaching  ?" 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


149 


Zillah's  face  spoke  unutterable  gratitude. 

"This,"  said  Obed  Ciuite,  "is  purely  a  busi- 
ness transaction.  I'll  only  give  you  the  usual 
payment — say  five  hundred  dollars  a  year,  and 
found." 

"And— what?" 

"  Found— that  is,  board,  you  know,  and  cloth- 
ing, of  course,  also.     Is  it  a  bargain  ?" 

"  Oh,  my  best  friend !  how  can  1  thank  you  ? 
What  can  I  say  ?" 

"Say !  why,  call  me  again  your  ' best  friend ;' 
that  is  all  the  thanks  I  want. " 

So  tlie  engagement  was  made,  and  Zillah  be- 
came a  music-teacher. 


by 


CHAPTER  XLIII. 

THE   REPORT. 

During  Lord  Chetwynde's  absence  Hilda  re- 
ceived constant  communications  from  Gualtier.  I 
He  had  not  very  much  to  tell  her,  though  his ; 
watchfulness  was  incessant.     He  had  contrived  ! 
to  follow  Lord  Chetwynde  to  London,  under  dif- ' 
ferent  disguises,  and  with  infinite  difficulty ;  and  j 
also  to  put  up  at  the  same  house.     Lord"  Chet- 
wynde had  not  the  remotest  idea  that  lie  was 
watched,  and  took  no  pains  to  conceal  any  of  his 
motions.     Indeed,  to  a  mind  like  his,  the  idea 
of  keeping  any  thing  secret,  or  of  going  out  of 
his  way  to  avoid  notice,  never  suggested  itself,  i 
He  was  perfectly  open  and  free  from  disguise.  I 
He  stopped  at  the  Hastings  House,  an  elegatit 
and  quiet  hotel,  avoided  the  clubs,  and  devoted  j 
himself  altogether  to  business.     At  this  house 
Gualtier  stopped  also,  but  could  find  out  nothing 
about  Lord  Chetwynde's  business.     He  could 
only  learn   this  much,    that  Lord  Chetwynde 
went  every  day,  at  eleven  o'clock,  to  the  oftice 
of  his  solicitors,  Messrs.  Pendergrast  Brothers, 
with  whom  he  was  closeted  for  an  hour  or  more. 
Evidently  there  was  some  very  important  busi- 
ness between  them ;  but  what  that  business  was, 
or  to  whom  it  might  have  reference,  was  a  per- 
fect mystery  to  Gualtier.     This  was  about  the 
sum  and  substance  of  the  information  which  his 
letters  conveyed  to  the  anxious  Hilda. 

For  her  part,  every  thing  which  Gualtier  men- 
tioned about  liord  Chetwynde  was  read  by  her 
with  eager  curiosity.  She  found  herself  admir- 
ing the  grand  calm  of  this  man  whom  she  loved, 
this  splendid  carelessness,  this  frank  and  o]ien 
demeanor.  That  she  herself  was  cunning  and 
wily,  formed  no  obstacle  to  her  appreciation  of 
frankness  in  others ;  perliaps,  indeed,  tlie  ab- 
sence of  those  qualities  in  herself  made  her  ad- 
mire them  in  others,  since  they  were  qualities 
which  she  could  never  hope  to  gain.  Whatever 
his  motive  or  purpose  might  be,  he  was  now 
seeking  to  carry  it  out  in  the  most  open  manner, 
never  thinking  of  concealment.  She  was  work- 
ing in  the  dark ;  he  was  actmg  in  the  broad  light 
of  day.  Her  path,  as  she  looked  back  upon  it, 
wound  on  tortuously  amidst  basenesses  and 
treacheries  and  crimes;  his  was  straight  and  clear, 
like  the  path  of  the  just  man's — not  dark,  but 
rather  a  shining  light,  where  all  was  o])en  to  the 
gaze  of  the  world.  And  what  communion 
could  there  be  l)etween  one  like  him  and  one  like 
her?  Could  any  cunning  on  her  part  impose 
npon  him?    Could  she  over  conceal  from  him 


her  wily  and  tortuous  nature?  Could  he  not 
easily  discover  it?  Would  not  his  clear,  open, 
honest  eyes  see  through  and  through  tlie  mask 
of  deceit  with  which  she  concealed  her  true 
nature?  There  was  something  in  his  gaze 
which  she  never  could  face — something  which 
had  a  fearful  significance  to  her — sometiiing 
which  told  her  that  she  was  known  to  him,  and 
that  all  her  character  lay  open  before  hira,  with 
all  its  cunning,  its  craft,  its  baseness,  and  its 
wickedness.  No  arts  or  wiles'  of  hers  could 
avail  to  blind  him  to  these  things.  This  she 
knew  and  felt,  but  still  she  hoped  against  hope, 
and  entertained  vague  expectations  of  some  final 
understanding  between  tiieni. 

But  what  was  the  business  on  which  he  was 
engaged?  What  was  it  that  thus  led  him  so 
constantly  to  his  solicitors  ?  This  was  the  prob- 
lem that  puzzled  her.  Various  solutions  sug- 
gested themselves.  One  was  that  he  was  merely 
anxious  to  see  about  breaking  the  entail  so  as  to 
pay  her  back  the  money  which  General  Pomeroy 
had  advanced.  Tiiis  he  had  solemnly  promised. 
Perhaps  his  long  search  through  his  father's 
papers  had  reference  to  this,  and  his  business 
with  his  solicitors  concerned  this,  and  this  only. 
This  seemed  natural.  But  there  was  also  an- 
other solution  to  the  problem.  It  was  within 
the  bounds  of  possibility  that  he  was  taking 
measures  for  a  divorce.  How  he  could  obtain 
one  she  did  not  see,  but  he  might  be  trying  to 
do  so.  She  knew  nothing  of  the  divorce  law, 
but  had  a  general  idea  that  nothing  except  crime 
or  cruelty  could  avail  to  break  the  bonds  of 
marriage.  That  Lord  Chetwynde  was  fixed  in 
his  resolve  to  break  all  ties  between  them  was 
painfully  evident  to  her ;  and  whatever  his  im- 
mediate purpose  might  now  be,  she  saw  plainly 
that  it  could  only  have  reference  to  this  sej)a- 
ration.  It  meant  that,  and  nothing  else.  He 
abhorred  her,  and  was  determined  to  get  rid  of 
her  al  all  hazards.     This  she  plainly  saw. 

At  length,  after  a  few  weeks'  absence,  Gual- 
tier returned.  Hilda,  full  of  impatience,  sent 
for  him  to  the  morning-room  almost  as  soon  as 
he  had  arrived,  and  went  there  to  wait  for  his 
appearance.  She  did  not  have  to  wait  long.  In 
a  few  minutes  Gualtier  made  his  appearance, 
obsequious  and  deferential  as  usual. 

"  Yoa  are  back  alone,"  said  she,  as  she  greet- 
ed him. 

"Yes;  Lord  Chetwynde  is  coming  back  to- 
morrow or  next  day,  and  I  thought  it  better  for 
me  to  come  back  first  so  as  to  see  you  before  he 
came." 

"  Have  you  found  out  any  thing  more  ?" 

"No,  my  lady.  In  my  letters  I  explained 
the  nat'-re  of  the  case.  I  made  all  the  efforts  1 
could  to  get  nt  the  bottom  of  this  business,  and 
to  find  out  what  you  called  the  purpose  of  his 
life.  But  you  see  what  insuperable  obstacles 
were  in  the  way.  It  was  absolutely  imirossible 
for  me  to  find  out  any  thing  in  particular  about 
his  affairs.  I  could  not  possibly  gain  access  to 
his  papers.  I  tried  to  gain  informatiim  from 
one  of  the  clerks  of  Pendergrast — formed  an  ac- 
quaintance with  him,  gave  him  a  dinner,  and 
succeeded  in  getting  him  drunk ;  but  even  that 
was  of  no  avail.  The  fellow  was  communicative 
enougli,  but  the  trouble  was  he  didn't  know 
any  thing  himself  about  this  thing,  and  had  no 
mure  knowledge  of  Lord  Chetwynde's  businesb 


160 


THE  CRYPTOGKAM. 


I 


or  purposes  than  I  myself  had.  I  Imve  done  all 
that  was  ])0S8ible  for  a  man  in  my  situation,  an'.', 
grieve  deeply  that  I  have  nothing  more  definite 
to  communicate." 

"You  have  done  admirably,"  said  Hilda; 
"  nothing  more  was  possible.  I  only  wished  you 
to  watch,  and  you  have  watciied  to  good  purjjose. 
Tiiis  much  is  evident,  from  your  reports,  that 
Lord  Chetwynde  has  some  all-engrossing  pur- 
pose. What  it.  is  can  not  be  known  now,  but 
must  be  known  some  day.  At  present  I  must 
be  content  with  the  knowledge  that  this  purpose 
exists. " 

"I  have  formed  some  conjectures,"  said  Gual- 
tier. 

"  On  what  grounds  ?  On  any  other  than  those 
which  vou  have  made  known  to  me  ?" 

"No.     Y>' know  all." 

"  Never  m  ,  then.  I  also  have  formed  con- 
jectures, and  i.ave  a  larger  and  broader  ground 
on  which  to  build  tiiem.  What  1  want  is  not 
conjectures  of  any  kind,  but  facts.  If  you  have 
any  more  facts  to  communicate,  I  should  like 
very  much  to  hear  them. " 

"Alas,  my  lady,  I  have  already  coramunicated 
to  you  all  the  facts  that  1  know." 

Hilda  was  silent  for  some  time. 

"  You  never  spoke  to  Lord  Chetwynde,  I  sup- 
pose?" said  she  at  length. 

"Oh  no,  my  lady  ;  I  did  not  venture  to  come 
into  communication  with  him  at  all." 

"Did  he  ever  see  you  ?" 

"  He  certainly  cast  his  eyes  on  me,  once  or 
twice,  but  without  any  recognition  in  them.  I 
really  don't  think  tliat  he  is  conscious  of  the  ex- 
istence of  a  person  like  me." 

"  Don't  be  too  sure  of  that.  Lord  Chetw3-nde 
is  one  who  can  see  every  thing  witiiout  a])pearing 
to  see  it.  His  eye  can  take  in  at  one  glance  the 
minutest  details.  He  is  a  man  who  is  (juite  ca- 
]).al)lo  of  making  the  discovery  that  you  were  the 
steward  of  ("hetwynde.  What  measure  did  you 
take  to  avoid  discovery  ?" 

Giudtier  smiled. 

"Tbe  measures  which  I  took  were  such  that 
it  would  have  puzzled  Fouciie'  himself  to  pene- 
trate my  disguise.  I  rode  in  tlie  same  compart- 
ment with  him,  all  the  way  to  London,  dressed 
as  an  elderly  widow. " 

"A  widow?" 

"  Yes ;  with  a  thick  black  veil,  and  a  very 
large  umbrella.  It  is  simply  impossible  that  be 
could  penetrate  my  disguise,  for  the  veil  was  too 
thick  to  show  my  features." 

"  But  the  hotel  ?" 

"At  the  hotel  I  was  a  Catholic  priest,  from 
Novara,  on  my  way  to  America.  I  wore  spec- 
tacles, with  dark  glasses.  No  friend  could  have 
recognized  me,  much  less  a  stranger." 

"  Hut  if  you  went  with  the  clerks  of  Pender- 
grast,  that  was  an  odd  disguise. " 

•'  Oh,  when  I  went  with  them,  I  dropped  that. 
I  became  an  American  naval  officer,  lielonging 
to  the  ship  Niagara,  which  was  then  in  London. 
I  wore  a  heavy  beard  and  mustache,  and  talked 
through  my  nose.  Besides,  I  would  drink  no- 
thing but  whisky  and  sherry  cobblers.  My  Amer- 
ican trip  proved  highly  ailvantageous." 

"And  do  you  feel  confident  that  he  has  not 
recognized  you  ?" 

"  (Confident !  Recognition  was  utterly  impos- 
sible.   It  would  have  reipiired  my  nearest  friend 


or  relative  to  have  recognized  me,  through  such 
disguises.  Besides,  my  face  is  one  which  can 
very  easily  be  disguised.  I  have  not  strongly 
marked  features.  My  face  can  easily  serve  for 
an  Italian  priest,  or  an  American  naval  officer. 
I  am  always  careful  to  choose  only  such  parts  uj 
nature  has  ada)>ted  me  for." 

' '  And  Lord  Chetwynde  is  coming  back  ?" 

"Yes." 

"When?" 

"  To-morrow,  or  next  day." 

"  I  wonder  how  long  he  will  stay  ?" 

"That  is  a  thing  which  no  one  can  find  out 
80  well  as  yourself." 

Hilda  was  silent. 

"  My  ladv,"  said  Gualtier,  after  a  long  pause. 

"Well?"' 

"You  know  how  ready  I  am  to  serve  you." 

"Yes,"  said  Hilda,  dreamily. 

"If  this  man  is  in  your  way  he  can  be  re- 
moved, as  others  have  been  removed,"  said  Gual- 
tier, in  a  low  voice.  "  Some  of  them  have  been 
removed  by  means  of  my  assistance.  Is  this 
man  in  your  way  ?  Is  he  ?  Shall  I  help  you  ? 
For  when  he  goes  away  again  I  can  become  his 
valet.  I  can  engage  myself,  bring  good  rec- 
ommendations, and  find  employment  from  him, 
which  will  bring  me  into  close  contact.  Then, 
if  you  find  him  in  your  way,  I  can  remove  the 
obstacle." 

Hilda's  eyes  blazed  with  a  lurid  light.  She 
looked  at  Gualtier  like  a  wrathful  demon.  The 
words  which  she  spoke  came  hissing  out,  hot  and 
fierce : 

"  Curse  you !  You  do  not  know  what  you  are 
saying.  I  woidd  rather  lose  a  thousand  such  as 
you  than  lose  him  !  I  would  rather  die  myself 
than  have  one  hair  of  his  head  injured  !" 

Gualtier  looked  at  her,  transfi.xed  with  amaze- 
ment. Then  his  head  sank  down.  These  words 
crushed  him. 

"  ('an  I  ever  hope  for  forgiveness  ?"  he  falter- 
ed at  last.  "  I  misiniderstood  you.  I  am  your 
slave.     I — I  only  wished  to  serve  you." 

Hilda  waved  her  hand. 

"You  do  not  understand,"  said  she,  as  she 
rose.     "  Some  day  you  will  imderstand  all." 

"Then  I  will  wait,"  said  Gualtier,  humbly. 
"  I  have  waited  for  years.  I  can  still  wait.  I 
only  live  for  you.     Forgive  me." 

Hilda  looked  away,  and  Gualtier  sat,  looking 
thoughtfully  and  sadly  at  her. 

"There  is  one  thing,"  said  he,  "which  you 
were  fortunate,  to  think  of.  You  guarded  against 
a  danger  which  I  did  not  anticipate," 

"Ah  !"  said  Hilda,  roused  by  the  mention  of 
danger.     "  What  is  that  ?" 

"  The  discovery  of  so  humble  a  person  as  my- 
self. Thanks  to  you,  my  assinncd  lumie  has 
saved  me.  But  at  the  same  time  it  led  to  an 
embarrassing  position,  from  which  I  only  escaped 
by  my  own  wit." 

"  What  do  you  allude  to?"  asked  Hilda,  with 
languid  curiosity. 

"  Oh,  it's  the  doctor.  You  know  he  has  been 
attending  Mrs.  Hart.  Well,  some  time  ago,  be- 
fore I  left  for  London,  he  mot  me,  and  talked 
about  things  in  general.  Whenever  he  meets 
me  he  likes  to  get  up  a  conversation,  and  I  gen- 
erally avoid  him;  but  this  time  I  coiddn't.  Aft- 
er a  time,  with  a  great  appearance  of  concern,  ho 
said  : 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


181 


I  KODB  WITH  HIM  ALL  THK  WAY  TO  LONDON,  DHESSBD  A8  AN  ELDERLY  WIDOW. 


"  '  I  nm  sorry  to  henr,  Mr.  Gualticr,  that  you 
are  nbout  to  be  superseded. ' 

"'Superseded!'  siiid  I.  'What  do  you 
menu  ?' 

"'I  lienr  from  some  gossip  of  the  sevvants 
that  there  is  a  new  steward.' 


'"A  new  steward!  This  is  the  first  that  I 
have  heard  of  it,'  said  I.  '  I  am  tiie  only  stew- 
ard here.' 

"'This  one,'  said  lie,  'is — n — Mr.  M'Ken- 
zie.' 

"'M'Kcnzie!'     said    I,     iiistantaneously — 


««ivqi|m 


.J" 


ir>2 


'^').))j^j/i«i*iwi KjiiiP^^inqpi^wiNaJ-i 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


'^'fjj^ptw. 


'  Why,  I  am 
'  Isn't 


'M'Kenzie!'     And  I  laughed. 
Mr.  M'Kenzie.' 

"  '  You !'  said  he,  in  utter  amazement 
your  name  Gualtier?' 

"'Oh  no,'  said  I;  'that  is  a  name  which  I 
adopted,  when  a  music-teacher,  for  professional 
purposes.  Foreign  names  are  always  liked  bet-' 
ter  than  native  ones.  My  real  name  is  M'Ken- 
zie. The  late  Earl  knew  all  about  it,  and  so 
does  Lady  Chetwynde.' 

"  The  doctor  looked  a  little  puzzled,  but  at  last 
accepted  my  explanation  and  went  off.  Still  I 
don't  like  the  look  of  the  thing." 

"No,"  said  Hilda,  who  had  listened  with  no 
great  interest,  "  it's  not  pleasant.  But,  after  all, 
there  was  no  danger  even  if  he  had  thought  you 
an  impostor. " 

''  Pardon  me,  my  lady;  but  doctors  are  great 
gossips,  and  can  send  a  story  like  this  flying 
through  the  county.     He  may  do  so  j'et." 

At  another  time  Hilda  would  have  taken 
more  interest  in  this  narration,  but  now  she 
seemed  so  preoccupied  that  her  usnid  vigilance 
had  left  her.  Gualtier  noticed  this,  but  was 
scarcely  surprised.  It  was  only  a  fresh  proof  of 
her  infatuation. 

So  after  a  few  moments  of  silent  thoughtful- 
ness  he  left  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XLIV. 

A  STRANGE   ENCOUNTER. 

On  the  day  after  Gualtier's  inter%iew  with 
Hilda,  Lord  Chetwynde  was  still  in  London,  oc- 
cupied with  the  business  whicii  had  brought  him 
there.  It  was  between  ten  and  eleven  in  the 
morning,  and  he  was  walking  down  Piccadilly 
on  his  way  to  the  City,  where  he  liad  an  appoint- 
ment with  his  solicitors.  He  was  very  much 
preoccupied,  and  scarcely  noticed  any  thing 
around  him.  Walking  on  in  this  mood  he  felt 
his  arm  seized  by  some  one  who  had  come  up 
behind  him,  and  a  voice  exclaimed : 

"  Windham !  by  all  that's  great !  How  are 
you,  old  fellow  ?"  and  before  he  had  time  to  re- 
cover from  his  surprise,  his  hand  was  seized, 
appropriated,  and  nearly  wrung  off  by  Obed 
Chute. 

To  meet  Obed  Chute  thus  in  London  was  cer- 
tainly strange,  yet  not  so  very  much  so,  after  all. 
London  is  vast,  multitudinous,  enormous — a  na- 
tion rather  than  a  city,  as  De  Quincey  well  re- 
marks— a  place  where  one  may  hide  and  never 
be  discovered ;  yet  after  all  there  are  certain 
streets  where  strangers  are  most  frequent,  and 
that  two  strangers  should  meet  one  another  here 
in  one  of  these  few  thoroughfares  is  more  com- 
mon than  one  would  suppose.  After  the  first 
surprise  at  such  a  sudden  greeting  Windham 
felt  it  to  be  a  very  natural  thing  for  Obed  Chute 
to  be  in  Ijondon,  and  evinced  ns  much  pleasure 
at  meeting  him  as  was  shown  by  the  other. 

"Have  you  been  here  ever  since  your  return 
to  England  ?"  he  asked. 

"Oh  ro,"  said  Windham,  "I've  only  been 
here  a  short  time,  and  I  have  to  leave  this  after- 
noon." 

"  I'm  sorry  for  that;  I  shoidd  like  to  sec  you 
— but  I  suppose  it  can't  be  helped ;  and  then  I 
must  go  buck  immediately. " 


"Ah!  You  are  on  your  way  to  America, 
then?" 

"America!  Oh  no.  I  mean — go  back  to 
Italy." 

"Italy?" 

"  Yes ;  we're  nil  there  yet." 

"I  hope  Miss  Chute  and  your  family  are  all 
well  ?"  said  Lord  Chetwynde,  politely. 

"Never  better,"  said  Obed. 

"  Where  are  you  staying  now  ?" 

"In  Naples.'^ 

"  It's  a  very  pleasant  place." 

"Too  pleasant  to  leave." 

"  By-the-way,"  said  Lord  Chetwynde,  after  a 
pause,  and  speaking  with  assumed  inditierence, 
"  were  you  ever  able  to  find  out  any  thing  about 
— MissLorton?" 

His  indifference  was  but  poorly  carried  out. 
At  the  mention  of  that  name  he  stammered, 
and  then  stopped  short. 

But  Obed  did  not  notice  any  peculiarity.  He 
answered,  quickly  and  earnestly : 

"It's  that  very  thing,  Windham,  that  has 
brought  me  here.     I've  left  her  in  Naples." 

"Wiiat?"  cried  Lord  Chetwynde,  eagerly; 
"  she  is  with  you  yet,  then?" 

"  Yes." 

"In  Naples?" 

"  Yes — with  my  family.  Poor  little  thing  I 
Windham,  I  have  a  story  to  tell  about  her  that 
will  make  your  heart  bleed,  if  you  have  the 
heart  of  a  man." 

"My  God!"  cried  Lord  Chetwynde,  in  deep 
emotion  ;  "  what  is  it  ?  Has  any  thing  new  hap- 
pened ?" 

"  Yes,  something  new — something  worse  than 
before." 

"But  she — she  is  alive — is  she  not — she  is 
well— she— " 

"Thank  God,  yes,"  said  Obed,  not  noticing 
the  intense  emotion  of  the  other ;  "  yes — she  has 
suffered,  poor  little  girl,  but  siie  is  getting  over 
it — and  one  day  I  hope  she  may  find  some  kind 
of  comfort.  But  at  present,  and  for  some  time 
to  come,  I'm  afraid  that  any  thing  like  happi- 
ness or  peace  or  comfort  will  be  impossible  for 
her." 

"  Is  she  very  sad  ?"  asked  Lord  Chetwynde,  in 
a  voice  which  was  tremulous  from  supj)ressed  agi- 
tation. 

"The  poor  child  bears  up  wonderfully,  and 
struggles  hard  to  make  us  think  that  she  is  cheer- 
fid  ;  but  any  one  who  watches  her  can  easily  see 
that  she  has  some  deep-seated  grief,  which,  in 
spite  of  all  our  care,  may  even  yet  wear  away  her 
young  life.  Windham,  I've  heard  of  cases  of  a 
broken  heart.  I  think  I  once  in  my  life  saw  a 
case  of  that  kind,  and  I'm  afraid  that  this  case 
will — will  come  at  last  to  be  classed  in  that  list." 

Lord  Chetwynde  siiid  nothing.  He  had  no- 
thing to  say — he  had  nothing  to  do.  His  face  ia 
tlie  few  moments  of  this  conversation  had  grown 
ghastly  white,  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  vacancy, 
and  an  expression  of  intense  pain  spread  over 
his  features.  He  walked  along  by  Obed  (Jhute's 
side  with  the  uncertain  step  of  one  who  walks 
in  a  dream. 

Obed  said  nothing  for  some  time.  His  own 
thoughts  were  reverting  to  that  yoimg  girl  whom 
he  had  left  in  Naples  bin-ied  under  a  mountain  of 
woe.  .(^ould  he  ever  draw  her  forth  from  that 
overwhelming  grief  which   pressed  her  down  ? 


■  I  llJlpll^fp^ll.ll 


THE  CRVPTOGRAM, 


153 


They  went  on  together  through  several  streets 
without  any  particular  intention,  each  one  occu- 
pied with  his  own  thoughts,  until  at  last  they 
found  themselves  at  St.  James's  I'ark.  Here 
tiiey  entered,  and  walked  along  one  of  the  chief 
avenues. 

"You  remember,  Windham,"  said  Obed  at 
last — "  of  course  you  have  not  forgotten  the  sto- 
ry which  Miss  Lorton  told  about  lier  betrayal." 

Lord  C'hutwynde  bowed,  without  trusting  him- 
self to  speak. 

"And  you  remember  the  villain's  name,  too, 
of  course." 

"  Yes — Gualtier,"  said  Lord  Chetwynde. 

"  I  ])ut  the  case  in  the  hands  of  the  Mar- 
seilles police,  and  you  know  that  up  to  the  time 
when  we  left  nothing  inid  been  done.  Nothing 
has  been  done  since  of  any  conseciuence.  On 
my  way  here  I  stopped  at  Marseilles,  and  found 
tiiat  the  police  had  been  completely  battled,  and 
had  found  no  trace  whatever  either  of  Gualtier  or 
of  the  maid  Mathilde.  When  I  arrived  at  Mar- 
seilles 1  found  that  the  police  there  had  been  on 
the  look-out  for  that  man  for  seven  weeks,  but  in 
spite  of  the  most  minute  incpiiry,  and  the  most 
vigilant  watchfulness,  they  had  seen  no  sign  of 
any  such  i)erson.  The  conclusion  that  I  have 
come  to  is  that  he  never  went  to  Naples — at 
least  not  after  his  crime.  Nor,  on  the  other 
hand,  is  it  likely  that  he  remained  in  France. 
The  only  thing  that  I  can  think  of  is  that  both 
he  and  the  maid  Matiiilde  went  back  to  En- 
gland." 

"There  is  Germany,"  said  Lord  Chetwynde, 
who  had  not  lost  a  word,  "or  the  other  states 
of  Italy.  Florence  is  a  pleasant  place  to  go  to. 
Above  all,  there  is  America — tiie  common  land 
of  refuge  to  all  who  have  to  fly  from  the  Old 
World." 

"Y'es,  all  that  is  true — very  tnie.  It  may 
be  so ;  but  I  have  an  idea  that  the  man  may  still 
be  in  England,  and  I  have  some  hope  of  getting 
on  his  track  now.  Hut  this  is  not  the  imme- 
diate purpose  of  my  coming.  That  was  caused 
by  a  discovery  of  new  features  in  tiiis  dark  case, 
which  show  a  deliberate  plan  on  the  part  of 
Gualtier  and  others  to  destroy  Miss  Lorton  so  as 
to  get  lier  money." 

"Have  you  found  out  any  thing  else?  Has 
any  fresh  calamity  fallen  upon  that  innocent 
head  ?"  asked  Lord  Chetwynde,  in  breathless 
anxiety.  "  At  any  rate,  it  can  not  be  so  bad  as 
what  she  has  already  suffered. " 

"  In  one  sense  it  is  not  so  bad,  but  in  another 
sense  it  is  worse." 

"  How  ?" 

"  Why,  it  is  not  so  bad,  for  it  only  concerns  the 
loss  of  money  ;  but  then,  again,  it  is  far  .worse, 
for"— and  Obed's  voice  dropped  low — "for  it 
shows  her  that  there  is  an  accomplice  of  Gual- 
tier's,  who  has  joined  with  him  in  this  crime, 
and  been  a  princii)al  in  it,  and  this  accbmpUce 
is — her  sister!" 

"  Great  God !"  cried  Lord  Chetwynde,  aghast. 
"Her  sister?" 

"Her  sister,"  said  Obed,  who  did  not,  as 
yet,  think  it  necessary  to  tell  what  Zillah  had  re- 
vealed to  him  in  confidence  about  their  not 
being  sisters. 

Lord  Chetwynde  seemed  ovenvhelmed. 

Obed  then  began  and  detailed  to  him  every 
circumstance  of  the  affair  of  the  draft,  to  all  of 


which  the  other  listened  with  rapt  attention.  A 
long  discussion  followed  this  revelation.  Lord 
Chetwynde  could  not  help  seeing  that  Mi.ss  Lor- 
ton hud  been  betrayed  by  her  sister  as  well  as  by 
Gualtier,  and  felt  painfully  att'ected  by  the  cold- 
blooded cruelty  with  wiiich  the  abstraction  of 
the  money  was  managed.  To  him  this  "Ella 
Lorton"  seemed  wronged  as  no  one  had  ever 
been  wronged  before,  and  his  heart  burned  to 
assist  Obeil  Ciuite  in  his  work  of  vengeance. 

He  said  as  much.  "Hut  I  fear,"  he  added, 
"that  there  is  not  much  chance.  At  any  rate, 
it  will  be  a  work  of  years ;  and  long  before  then, 
in  fact,  before  many  weeks,  I  expect  to  be  on 
my  way  back  to  India.  As  to  this  wretched, 
this  guilty  pair,  it  is  my  opinion  that  they  have 
fled  to  America.  Hilda  Lorton  can  not  be  old  in 
crime,  and  her  first  instinct  would  be  to  fly  from 
England.  If  you  ever  find  tiiose  wretches,  it 
will  be  there." 

"I  dare  say  you  are  right,"  said  Ohed. 
"  But,"  he  added,  in  tones  of  grim  determin- 
ation, "if  it  takes  years  to  find  this  out,  I  am 
ready.  I  am  willing  to  spend  years  in  the 
search.  The  police  of  Italy  and  of  France  are 
already  on  the  track  of  this  attiiir.  It  is  my  in- 
tention to  direct  the  London  police  to  the  same 
game,  and  on  my  way  back  I'll  give  notice  at 
Berlin  and  Vienna,  so  as  to  set  the  Prussian 
and  Austrian  authorities  to  work.  If  all  these 
combined  can't  do  any  thing,  then  I'll  begin  to 
think  that  these  devils  are  not  in  Europe.  If 
they  are  in  America,  I  know  a  dozen  New  York 
detectives  that  can  do  something  in  the  way  of 
finding  out  even  more  artfid  scoundrels  than 
these.  For  my  own  part,  if,  after  ten  years  of 
incessant  labor,  any  light  is  thrown  on  this,  I 
shall  be  fully  rewarded.  I'd  spend  twice  the 
time  if  I  had  it  for  her,  the  poor  little  thing !" 

Obed  spoke  like  a  tender,  pitying  father,  and 
his  tones  vibrated  to  the  heart  of  Lord  Chet- 
wynde. 

For  a  time  he  was  the  subject  of  a  mighty 
struggle.  The  deepest  feelings  of  his  nature 
were  all  concerned  here.  Might  he  not  now 
make  this  the  object  of  his  life — to  give  up  every 
thing,  and  search  out  thtse  infernal  criminals, 
and  avenge  that  fair  girl  whose  image  had  been 
fixed  so  deeply  on  his  heart?  But,  then,  he 
feared  this  task.  Already  she  had  chained  him 
to  Marseilles,  and  still  he  looked  back  with 
anguish  upon  the  horror  of  tl  •  last  parting 
with  her.  All  his  nature  yeani'_  ■  nd  longed  to 
feel  once  more  the  sunshine  of  her  presence; 
but,  on  account  of  the  very  intensity  of  that 
longing,  the  dictates  of  honor  and  duty  bade 
him  resist  the  impul.se.  The  very  tendeniess  of 
his  love — its  all-consuming  ardor — those  very 
things  which  impelled  him  to  espouse  her  cause 
and  fight  her  battles  and  win  her  gratitude,  at 
the  very  same  time  held  him  back  and  bade  him 
avoid  her,  and  teivr  her  image  from  his  heart. 
For  who  was  he,  and  what  was  he,  tiiat  he 
should  yield  to  this  overmastering  spell  wliich 
had  been  thrown  over  him  by  the  witchery  of 
this  young  girl?  Had  he  not  his  wifet  Was 
she  not  at  ("Chetwynde  Castle  ?  That  odious 
wife,  forced  on  him  in  his  boyhood,  long  since 
grown  abhorrent,  and  now  standing  up,  an  im- 
passable barrier  between  him  and  the  dearest 
longings  of  his  heart.  (So  he  crushed  down  de- 
sire ;  and,  while  assenting  to  Obed's  plans,  made 


iv 


1S4 


THli  CKYrroGRAM, 


no  proposal  to  assist  him  in  any  way  in  their  ac- 
complishment. 

At  thi!  end  of  about  two  hours  Obed  an- 
nouni'ed  liis  intentions  iit  present.  I  le  had  come 
first  and  more  especially  to  see  Messrs.  Tilton  and 
lirownc,  with  a  hope  that  he  might  he  able  to 
trace  the  affair  back  far  enough  to  reach  Hilda 
Lorton  ;  and  secondly,  to  set  the  Ijoiidon  police 
to  work. 

"  Will  you  make  any  stay  ?"  asked  Lord  Chet- 
wymle. 

"No,  not  more  than  I  can  help.  I  can  find 
out  soon  whether  my  designs  are  practicable  or 
not.  If  they  can  not  he  immediately  followed 
out,  I  will  leave  it  to  the  police,  who  can  do  far 
better  than  me,  and  go  hack  to  Naples.  Miss 
Lorton  is  better  there,  and  1  feel  like  traveling 
about  Italy  till  "ihe  has  recovered.  I  see  that 
the  country  is  better  for  her  than  all  the  doctors 
and  medicines  in  the  world.  A  sail  round 
Najdes  Hay  may  rouse  her  from  the  deejiest 
melancholy.  She  has  set  her  heart  on  visiting 
Home  and  Florence.  So  1  must  go  back  to  my 
little  girl,  you  see." 

"  Those  names,"  said  Lord  Chetwynde,  calm- 
ly, and  without  exhibiting  any  signs  of  the  emo- 
tion which  the  allusion  to  that  "little  girl" 
caused  in  his  heart — "those  names  ought  cer- 
tainly to  be  traceable  — '  Hilda  Lorton,'  'Ella 
Lorton. '  'i'he  names  are  neither  vulgar  nor  com- 
mon. A  properly  organized  effort  ought  to  re- 
sult in  some  discovery.  '  Hilda  Lorton,'  '  Klla 
Lorton,'"  he  repeated,  "'Hilda,'  '  Klla'— not 
very  common  names — '  Hilda,'  '  Ella.' " 

He  rej)eated  these  names  thus  over  and  over, 
bnt  the  names  gave  no  hint  to  the  speaker  of  the 
dark,  deep  mystery  which  lay  beneath. 

As  for  Obed,   he  knew  that  Hilda  was  not 
Hilda  Lorton,  and  that  a  search  after  any  one  \ 
by  that  name  would  be  useless.     Zillah  had  told  , 
liim  that  she  was  not  her  sister.     At  length  the  j 
two  friends  se])arated.  Lord  ("hetwynde  saying 
that  he  would  remain  in  London  till  the  follow- 
ing day,  and  call  on  Dbed  at  his  hotel  that  even- 
ing to  learn  the  result  of  bis  labors.     With  this 
each  went  about  his  own  business  ;  but  into  the 
mind  of  Lord  Chetwf  nde  there  came  a  freA  i 
anxiety,  which  made  him  have  vague  desires  of, 
flying  away  forever — off'  to  India,  to  Australia —  | 
any  where  from  the  power  of  his  overmastering,  ! 
his  hopeless  love.    And  amidst  all  this  there  came 
a  deep  longing  to  go  to  Italy — to  Naples,  to  give 
up  every  thing — to  go  back  with  Obed  Chute. 
It  needed  all  the  strength  of  his  nature  to  resist 
this  impulse,  and  even  when  it  was  overcome  it 
was  only  for  a  time.     His  business  that  day  was 
neglected,  and  he  waited  impatiently  for  the 
evening. 

Evening  came  at  last,  and  Lord  Chetwynde 
went  to  Obed's  hotel.  He  found  his  friend 
there,  looking  somewhat  dejected. 

"1  suppose  you  have  accomplished  nothing," 
he  said.     "  I  see  it  in  your  face." 

"You're  about  right,"  said  Obed.  "I'm 
going  back  to  Naples  to-morrow." 

' '  You've  failed  utterly,  then  ?'" 

"Yes,  in  all  that  I  hoped.  But  still  I  have 
done  what  I  could  to  put  things  on  the  right 
track." 

"  What  have  you  done  ?" 

"  Well,  I  went  first  to  Tilton  and  Browne. 
One  of  my  own  London  agents  accompanied  me 


there,  and  introduced  mo.  Tiiey  were  at  once 
very  eager  to  do  all  that  they  could  for  me. 
But  I  soon  found  out  that  nothing  could  be 
done.  That  girl — Windham— that  girl,''  re- 
jjeated  Obed,  with  solemn  emjihasis,  "is  a  little 
the  deepest  party  that  it's  ever  been  my  lot  to 
come  across.  How  any  one  brought  up  with 
my  little  girl"  (this  was  the  name  that  Obed 
loved  to  give  to  Zillah)  "could  develop  such 
superhuman  villainy,  and  such  cool,  calculating, 
far-reaching  craft,  is  more  than  I  can  imder- 
siand.  She  knocks  me,  I  confess.  ISut,  then, 
the  ])lan  may  all  be  the  work  of  (jualtier." 

"  Why,  what  new  thing  have  you  found 
out?" 

"Oh,  nothing  exactly  new;  only  this,  that 
the  deposit  of  Miss  Lorton's  funds  and  the  with- 
drawal, which  were  all  done  by  her  in  Miss  Lor- 
ton's name  and  person,  were  numaged  so  clever- 
ly that  there  is  not  the  slightest  gliost  of  a  clew 
by  which  either  she  or  the  money  can  be  traced. 
She  drew  the  funds  from  one  banker  and  de- 
posited them  with  another.  I  thought  I  should  be 
able  to  find  out  the  banker  from  whom  they  were 
drawn,  but  it  is  impossible.  Before  I  came  here 
1  had  written  to  Tilton  and  Browne,  and  they  had 
made  inquiries  from  all  the  London  bankers, 
but  not  one  of  them  had  any  ac([uaintance 
whatever  with  that  name  It  must  have  been 
some  provincial  bunk,  but  wnich  one  can  not  be 
known.  The  funds  which  she  dei)osited  were  in 
Bank  of  England  notes,  and  these,  as  well  as  the 
consols,  gave  no  indication  of  their  last  ))lace  of 
deposit.  It  was  cleverly  maiuiged,  and  I  think 
the  actors  in  this  affair  understand  too  well  thtir 
business  to  leave  a  single  mark  on  their  trail. 
The  accoimt  had  only  been  with  Tilton  and 
BrowncJ  for  a  short  time,  and  they  could  not 
give  me  the  slightest  assistance.  And  so  1  failed 
there  completely. 

"1  then  went  to  the  police,  and  stated  my 
case.  The  prefect  at  Marseilles  had  already 
been  in  comnuinication  with  them  about  it. 
They  had  made  iiuiuiries  at  all  the  schools  and 
seminaries,  had  searched  tiie  directoiies,  and 
every  thing  else  of  that  kind,  but  could  find  no 
music-teacher  mentioned  by  the  name  of  (Jual- 
tier. They  took  it  for  granted  that  (he  name 
was  an  assumed  one.  They  had  also  investi- 
gated the  name  'Lorton,'  and  had  found  one 
or  two  old  county  families ;  but  these  knew  no- 
thing of  the  young  ladies  in  question.  They 
promised  to  continue  their  search,  and  communi- 
cate to  me  any  thing  that  might  be  discovered. 
There  the  matter  rests  now,  and  there  1  sup- 
pose it  must  rest  imtil  something  is  done  by 
somebody.  When  I  have  started  the  Austrian 
and  Prussian  police  on  the  same  scent  I  will 
feel  that  nothing  more  can  be  done  in  Europe. 
I  suppose  it  is  no  use  to  go  to  S])ain  or  Hussia 
or  'iurkey.  By-the-way,  there  is  Belgium.  I 
mustn't  forget  that." 

It  was  only  by  the  strongest  effort  that  Lord 
Chetwynde  was  able  to  conceal  the  intensity  of 
his  interest  in  Obed's  revelations.  All  that  day 
his  own  business  had  been  utterly  forgotten,  and 
all  his  thoughts  had  been  occupied  with  Zillah 
and  her  mysterious  sorrows.  When  he  left 
Marseilles  he  had  sought  to  throw  away  all  con- 
cern for  her  affairs,  and  devote  himself  to  the 
Chetwynde  business.  But  Obed's  ai)i)earance 
had  brought  back  before^  him  in  fresh  strengtii 


Mil 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


155 


all  his  memories  of  Zillah,  and  the  darker  color  [  which  he  had  felt  toward  Lord  riietwyndo  soon 


which  her  tragedy  assumed  excited  the  deepest 
feelings  of  his  nature,  lie  struggled  ugtinitit 
tliis  in  vain,  and  his  future  plans  took  a  color- 
ing from  this,  which  afterward  resulted  in  very 
important  events. 

The  two  friends  talked  over  this  matter,  in 
which  both  were  so  deeply  interested,  far  into 
the  hours  of  the  morning,  and  at  length  they 
liade  each  other  good-by.  On  the  following  day 
<  )l)ed  was  to  go  to  Naples,  and  Lord  Chetwynde 
buck  to  the  Castle. 


CHAPTER  XLV. 

ANOTHER     EFFORT. 


The  words  of  Hilda  produced  a  deeper  effect 
upon  Gualtier  than  she  could  have  imagined. 
Accustomed  to  rule  him  and  to  have  her  words 
received  and  her  commands  obeyed  without 
remonstrance,  she  had  grown  to  think  that  those 
words  of  hers  were  all-sufficient  by  themselves, 
iind  needed  no  explanation.  IShe  did  not  make  al- 
lowance for  the  feelings,  the  thoughts,  and,  above 
all,  for  the  passions  of  one  like  Gualtier.  She 
was  taken  up  with  her  own  ]>lans,  her  cares,  her 
desires,  and  her  purposes.  He,  on  his  part,  was 
absorbed  in  one  desire,  and  all  that  desire  was 
centered  upon  the  one  who  held  herself  so  grand- 
ly aloof  from  him,  using  him  as  her  tool,  but 
never  deigning  to  giant  him  any  thing  more 
than  some  slight  word  or  act  of  kindness.  Her 
last  words  had  sunk  deep  into  his  soul.  They 
revealed  to  him  the  true  condition  of  things. 
He  learned  now,  for  the  first  time,  that  she  loved  know,  will  you  ? 
Lord  Chetwynde,  and  was  anxious  to  gain  his  ' 
love  in  retuiTi.  Lord  Chetwynde,  he  saw,  was 
not  an  obstacle  to  be  removed  from  her  path, 
l)ut  rather  an  object  of  yearning  desire,  which 
was  to  be  won  for  herself.  He  saw  that  she 
wished  to  be  in  reality  that  which  she  was  now 
only  in  name,  and  that  falsely  —  namely,  Lady 
Chetwynde.  To  a  mind  like  his  such  a  discov- 
ery was  bitter  indeed.  All  the  vengeful  feelings 
that  lay  dormant  within  him  were  aroused,  and 
henceforth  all  the  hate  which  he  was  ca))able  of 
feeling  was  turned  toward  this  man,  who  had  so 
easily  gained  for  himself  that  love  for  which  he 
had  labored  so  long,  so  arduously,  and  yet  so 
vainly.  Had  he  not  devoted  years  to  the  task 
of  acquiring  that  love?  Had  he  not  labored 
with  patience  and  unfaltering  devotion?  Had 
he  not  endured  slights  and  insults  without  num- 
ber ?  Had  he  not  crossed  the  ocean  in  her  sen'- 
ice  in  search  of  information  which  she  wished 

to  gain  ?  And  for  all  this  what  reward  had  he  '  therefore,  she  found  that  the  only  possible  course 
received  ?  Nothing  more  than  a  cold  smile.  I  oj)en  to  her  was  to  wait  jiatiently  on  her  oppor- 
But  here  came  this  man  who  was  at  once  a  i  tunities.  If  the  worst  came  to  the  worst,  and 
stranger  and  an  enemy — a  man  who  abhorred  Mrs.  Hart  recovered,  her  only  resource  would  be 
her,  a  man  whom  she  ought  to  hate,  on  whom  |  to  leave  Chetwynde  for  a  time  at  least.  For  such 
she  had  wrought  fearful  injuries ;  and  lo,  instead  i  a  step  she  had  prepared  herself,  and  for  it  she 
of  hating,  she  loved  him  in  a  moment !  Bitter  had  every  excuse.  Lord  Chetwynde,  at  least, 
indeed  were  the  thoughts  of  Gualtier  as  these  could  neither  blame  her  nor  suspect  her  if  she 
things  came  to  his  mind.  Scom  for  himself,  |  did  so.  She  could  retire  quietly  to  Pomerov 
or  slights,  or  indifference,  he  might  have  borne    Court,  and  there  await  the  issue  of  events.    Such 


grew  to  bitter  hate,  and  the  hate  rajiidly  became 
so  strong  that  nothing  but  implacable  vengeance 
would  appease  it. 

Two  or  three  days  after  Gualtier's  arrival 
Lord  Chetwynde  returned.  His  return  was  (|ui- 
et  and  undemonstrative.  The  servants  greet- 
ed their  master  with  the  usual  respectful  wel- 
come, but  he  took  no  notice  of  them.  He  went 
to  the  library,  to  which  his  portmanteau  was  car- 
ried, and  after  remaining  there  a  few  moments 
he  went  to  Mrs.  Hart's  room.  The  housekeeper 
was  there. 

"  How  has  she  been  ?"  he  asked. 

'*  Very  much  better." 

"  Is  she  conscious  ?" 

"Not  yet,  altogether,  but  she  is  beginning  to 
be." 

"  What  does  the  doctor  say  ?" 

"  He  has  great  hopes,  he  says ;  and  ho  tells 
me  that  unremitting  care  may  yet  bring  her 
around.     He  seems  to  be  very  hopeful." 

"  You  have  attended  her,  I  hope,  as  1  directed. " 

"Yes,  my  lord.  I  have  devoted  most  of  my 
time  to  her.  I  have  neglected  the  house  for  her 
sake.  I  told  Lady  Chetwynde  that  Mrs.  Hart 
depended  upon  me,  and  that  1  would  nurse  'ter." 

"That  was  not  necessary.  She  might  "je 
displeased  if  the  house  were  neglected." 

"  Oh  no,  my  lord.  She  showed  the  strongest 
interest  in  Mrs.  Hart,  and  1  have  to  bring  her 
reports  of  the  doctor's  opinions  every  day." 

"Ah!  well.  I  am  glad  that  you  have  been 
so  attentive.  You  must  continue  to  do  so.  De- 
vote yourself  chiefly  to  her.  It  is  my  will.  If 
you  get  into  any  trouble  while  1  am  away,  let  me 
"I  have  given  you  my  address, 
and  any  letter  from  you  will  reach  me  there. " 

"  Yes,  my  lord." 

Lord  Chetwynde  then  returned  to  the  library, 
and  to  his  business. 

Yes.  Itwas  true  thatMrs.  Hart  was  recovering. 
She  had  come  out  of  that  deep  stupor  in  which  she 
had  lain  so  long.  The  assiduous  attentions  which 
she  had  received  were  chiefly  the  cause  of  this. 
Hilda  had  heard  of  this,  and  was  greatly  troub- 
led. In  Mrs.  Hart's  recovery  she  saw  one  great 
danger,  yet  it  was  a  danger  which  she  felt  her- 
self powerlcs  to  avert.  The  housekeeper  had 
been  engaged  now  in  this  new  duty  directly  by 
Lord  Chetwynde,  and  in  her  present  position 
she  did  not  dare  to  remonstrate.  She  thought 
that  Lord  Chetwynde  either  understood  her,  or 
at  least  suspected  her ;  and  believed  that  any  act 
of  hers  which  might  lead  to  the  delay  of  Mrs. 
Hart's  recoveiy  would  be  punished  by  him  with 
implacable  vengeance.     In  this  delicate  position. 


m  patient  waiting ;  but  when  the  one  who  showed 
this  indifference  and  this  scorn  proved  eager  to 
.sacrifice  him,  herself,  and  every  thing  else  to  the 
man  whom  she  ought  to  hate,  then  his  position 
became  intolerable— Unendurable.     The  dislike 


a  step  in  itself  was  not  unpleasant,  and  she  would 
have  carried  it  into  execution  long  ago  had  it  not 
been  for  the  power  which  Ijord  (Mietwvnde  ex- 
erted over  her.  It  was  this,  and  this  only,  which 
forced  her  to  stay. 


1S6 


r 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


Gnaltier  Mbo  was  not  nnmindfSl  of  this.  On 
the  (lay  of  liLs  arrival  he  hiid  luarrted  that  Mrs. 
Hart  was  recovering  and  might  soon  l)e  well. 
Ho  undorstood  perfectly  all  that  was  involved  in 
her  recovery,  and  the  danger  that  might  attend 
upon  it.  For  Mrs.  Hart  would  at  once  recognize 
Hilda,  and  ask  after  Zilluh.  There  was  now  no 
chnnce  to  do  any  thing.  Lord  t^hetwyndo 
watched  over  her  as  a  son  might  watch  over  a 
mother.  These  two  thus  stood  before  him  as  a 
standing  menace,  an  ever-threatening  danger  in 
that  path  from  which  other  dangers  had  been  re- 
moved at  such  a  hazard  and  at  such  a  cost. 
Whatcoiddhedo?  Nothing.  It  was  for  Hilda 
to  act  in  this  emergency.  He  himself  was 
powerless.  He  feared  also  that  Hilda  herself 
did  not  realize  the  full  extent  of  her  danger. 
He  saw  how  abstracted  she  had  become,  and 
liow  she  was  engrossed  by  this  new  and  unlooked- 
for  feeling  which  had  taken  full  possession  of 
lier  heart.  One  thing  alono  was  possible  to  him, 
and  that  was  to  warn  Hilda.  I'erhaps  she  knew 
the  danger,  and  was  indifferent  to  it;  perhaps 
she  was  not  at  all  aware  of  it ;  in  any  case,  a 
timely  warning  could  not  possibly  do  any  harm, 
and  might  do  a  great  deal  of  good.  Under  these 
circumstances  he  wrote  a  few  words,  which  he 
contrived  to  place  in  her  hands  on  the  morning 
when  Jyord  Chetwyndo  arrived.  The  words 
were  these  : 

"  Mrs.  Hart  is  recovering,  and  the  doctor  hopes 
that  she  will  soon  he  entireli/  well." 

Hilda  read  these  words  gloomily,  but  nothing 
could  be  done  except  what  she  had  already  de- 
cided to  do.  She  burned  the  note,  and  returned 
to  her  usual  meditations.  The  arrival  of  Lord 
Chetwynde  soon  drove  every  thing  else  out  of 
her  miiul,  and  she  waited  eagerly  for  the  time 
for  dinner,  when  she  might  see  him,  hear  his 
voice,  and  feast  her  eyes  upon  his  face. 

On  descending  into  the  dining-room  she  found 
Lord  CJhetwynde  already  there.  Without  a 
thought  of  former  slights,  but  following  oidy  the 
instincts  of  her  own  heart,  which  in  its  ardent 
passion  was  now  filled  with  joy  at  the  sight  of 
him,  she  advanced  toward  him  with  extended 
hand.  She  did  not  say  a  word.  She  could  notf 
speak.  Her  emotion  overpowered  her.  She 
could  only  extend  her  hand  and  look  up  into  his 
face  imploringly. 

Lord  Chetwyndo  stood  before  her,  cold,  re- 
served, with  a  lofty  hauteur  on  his  brow,  and  a 
coldness  in  his  face  which  might  have  repelled 
any  one  less  impassioned.  But  Hilda  was  des- 
perate. She  had  resolved  to  make  this  last  trial, 
and  stake  every  thing  upon  this.  Regardless, 
therefore,  of  the  repellent  expression  of  his  face, 
and  the  coldness  which  was  manifested  in  every 
lineament,  she  determined"  to 'force  a  greeting 
from  him.  It  was  with  this  resolve  that  she  held 
out  lier  hand  and  advanced  toward  him. 

But  Lord  Chetwynde  stood  unmoved.  His 
hands  hung  down.  He  looked  at  her  calmly,  yet 
coldly,  without  anger,  yef  without  feeling  of  any 
kind.     As  she  approached  he  bowed. 

"You  will  not  even  shake  hands  with  me?' 
faltered  Hilda,  in  a  stammering  voice. 

"(Jf  what  avail  would  that  be?"  said  Lord 
Chetwynde.  "You  and  I  are  forever  separate. 
We  must  stand  apart  forever.  Why  jiretend  to 
a  friendship  which  does  not  exist?  I  am  not 
your  friend,  Lady  Chetwynde." 


Hilda  was  silent.  Her  hand  fell  by  her  side. 
She  shrank  back  into  harself.  Her  disappoint- 
ment deepened  into  sadness  unutterable,  a  sad- 
ness that  was  too  ])rofound  for  anger,  a  sadness 
beyond  words.  So  the  dinner  j)a»scd  on.  Lord 
Chetwynde  was  calm,  stern,  fixed  in  his  feelings 
and  in  his  purpose.  Hilda  was  despairing,  and 
voiceless  in  that  despair.  For  the  first  time  she 
began  to  feel  that  all  was  lost. 


CHAPTER  XLVI. 

THE    TABLES    TURNED. 

Lord  Chetwynde  had  the  satisfaction  of  see- 
ing that  Mrs.  Hart  recovered  steadily.  Day  aft- 
er day  she  improved,  and  at  length  became  con- 
scious of  surrounding  objects.  After  having 
gained  consciousness  her  recovery  became  more 
rapid,  and  she  was  at  length  strong  enough  for 
him  to  visit  her.  The  housekeeper  prepared  her 
for  the  visit,  so  that  the  shock  might  not  be  too 
great.  To  her  surprise  she  found  that  the  idea 
of  his  i)resence  in  the  same  house  had  a  better 
ett'ect  on  her  than  all  the  medicines  which  she 
had  taken,  and  all  the  care  which  she  had  re- 
ceived. She  said  not  a  word,  but  lay  quiet  wiih 
a  smile  upon  her  face,  as  one  who  is  awaiting  the 
arrival  of  some  sure  and  certain  bliss.  It  was 
this  expression  which  was  on  her  face  when  Lord 
Chetwynde  entered.  She  lay  back  with  her  face 
turned  toward  the  door,  and  with  all  that  wistful 
yet  happy  expectancy  which  has  been  mentioned. 
He  walked  uj)  to  her,  took  her  thin,  emaciated 
hands  in  his,  and  kissed  her  pale  forehead. 

"My  own  dear  old  nurse,"  he  said,  "how 
glad  I  am  to  find  you  so  much  better ! " 

Tears  came  to  Mrs.  Hart's  eyes.  "  My  boy !" 
she  cried — "my  dearest  boy,  the  sight  of  you 
gives  me  life!"*  Sobs  choked  her  utterance. 
She  lay  there  clasping  his  hand  in  both  of  hers, 
and  wept. 

Mrs.  Hart  had  already  learned  from  the 
housekeeper  that  she  had  been  ill  for  many 
months,  and  her  own  memory,  as  it  gradually 
rallied  from  the  shock  and  collected  its  scattered 
energies,  brought  back  before  her  the  cause  of 
her  illness.  Had  her  recovery  taken  place  at  any 
other  time,  her  grief  might  have  caused  a  re- 
lapse ;  but  now  she  learned  that  Lord  Chetwynde 
was  here  watching  over  her — "her  boy,"  "her 
darling,"  "her  Guy" — and  this  was  enough  to 
counterbalance  the  grief  which  she  might  have 
felt.  So  now  she  lay  holding  his  hand  in  hers, 
gazing  up  into  his  face  *ith  an  expression  of 
blissful  contentment  and  of  perfect  peace  ;  feed- 
ing all  her  soul  in  that  gaze,  drawing  from  liim 
new  strength  at  every  glance,  and  murmuring 
words  of  fondes*  love  and  endearment.  As  he 
sat  there  the  sternness  of  Lord  ( 'hetwynde's  feat- 
ures relaxed,  the  eyes  softened  into  )ove  and 
pity,  the  hard  lines  about  the  mouth  tiled  away. 
He  seemed  to  feel  himself  a  boy  again,  as  he 
once  more  held  that  hand  which  had  guided  his 
boyhood's  years. 

He  staid  there  for  hours.  Mrs.  Hart  would 
not  let  him  go,  and  he  did  not  care  to  do  vio- 
lence to  her  affections  by  tearing  himself  away. 
She  seemed  to  cling  to  him  as  though  he  were 
the  only  living  being  on  whom  her  affections 
"ere  fixed.     He  took  to  himself  all  the  love  of 


""•^^W^immim^^^ir^^^W'WW 


THE  CRYPTOOUAM. 


157 


thin  poor,  weak,  fond  creature,  and  felt  a  Htrango 
pIcuHiiru  in  it.  She  on  tier  ))iirt  Hceinod  to  ac- 
(|uire  new  !itroMf{th  from  liis  iiresence. 

"  I'm  afraid,  my  dear  iiur»e,"  Hiiid  he,  "  that 
I  am  fatifj;uinK  you.  I  will  leave  you  now  and 
come  Ituck  again," 

"  No,  no,"  Haid  Mrs.  Hart,  earnestly ;  "  do  not 
leave  me.  You  will  leave  me  Hoon  enough.  Do 
not  desert  me  now,  my  own  boy — my  sweet  child 
— stay  hy  me." 

"  Hut  all  this  fafi),Mies  you." 

"No,  my  dearest— it  gives  mo  now  strength — 
such  strength  as  I  have  not  known  for  a  long 
time.  If  you  leave  me  I  shall  sink  back  again 
into  weakness.     IJo  not  forsake  me." 

So  Lord  ('hetwyndo  staid,  and  Mrs.  Hart 
made  him  tell  her  all  about  what  he  had  been 
doing  during  the  years  of  his  absence.  Hours 
passed  away  in  this  conversation.  And  he  saw, 
and  wondered  as  he  saw  it,  that  Mrs.  Hart  grew 
stronger  every  moment.  It  seemed  as  if  his 
l)resenco  brought  to  her  life  and  joy  and  strength. 
Ho  laughingly  mentioned  this. 

"  Yes,  my  dearest,"  said  Mrs.  Hart,  "you  are 
right.  You  bring  mo  new  life.  You  come  to 
nie  like  some  strong  angel,  and  bid  me  live.  I 
dure  say  I  have  something  to  live  for,  though  what 
it  is  I  can  not  tell.  Since  he  bus  gone  I  do  not 
see  what  there  is  for  mo  to  do,  or  why  it  should 
be  that  I  should  linger  on  in  life,  unless  it  may 
bo  for  you. " 

"For  me — yes,  my  dear  nurse,"  said  Lord 
Chetwynde,  fondly  kissing  her  ])ale  brow — "yes, 
it  must  be  for  me.     Live,  then,  for  me." 

"  Yon  have«other8  who  love  you  and  live  for 
you,"  said  Mrs.  Hart,  mournfully.  "  You  don't 
need  your  poor  old  nurse  now. " 

Lord  Chetwynde  shook  his  head. 

"  No  others  can  supply  your  place,"  said 
he.  "  You  will  always  be  my  own  dear  old 
nurse." 

Mrs,  Hart  looked  up  with  a  smilo  of  ec- 
stasy. 

"I  am  going  away,"  said  Lord  Chetwynde, 
after  some  further  conversation,  'Mn  a  few  days, 
and  I  do  not  know  when  I  will  be  back,  but  1 
want  you,  for  my  sake,  to  try  and  be  cheerfid,  so 
as  to  get  well  as  soon  as  possible." 

"Going  awav!"  gasped  Mrs,  Hart,  in  strong 
surprise,     "  Wliere  to  ?" 

"To  Italy,    To  Florence,"  said  Lord  Chet- 
wynde, 
'"To  Florence?" 

"Yes," 

"  Why  do  you  leave  Chetwynde?" 

"I  have  some  business,"  said  he,  "of  a  most 
important  kind ;  so  important  that  I  must  leave 
every  thing  and  go'away," 

"  Is  your  wife  going  with  you  ?" 

"No — she  will  remain  here,"  said  Lord  Chet- 
wynde, dryly, 

Mrs.  Hart  could  not  help  noticing  the  very 
|)eculiar  tone  in  which  he  spoke  of  his  wife, 

"  She  will  be  lonely  without  you,"  said  she. 

"  Well — business  mast  be  attended  to,  and 
this  is  of  vital  importance,"  was  Lord  Chet- 
wynde's  answer. 

Mrs.  Hart  was  silent  for  a  long  time. 

"Do  you  expect  ever  to  come  back?"  she 
asked  at  last. 

"I  hope  so." 

"But  you  do  not  know  so?" 


"  I  shouW  !«  sorry  to  give  up  Chetwynde  for- 
ever," said  lit. 

"  Is  there  any  danger  of  that?" 

"  Yes,  I  am  tliinliing  of  it.  The  affairs  of 
the  estate  are  of  sncli  a  nature  that  I  may  be 
compelled  to  sacrifice  even  Chetwynde.  You 
know  that  for  tliree  generations  this  prospect  has 
been  before  us. " 

"Hut  I  thought  that  danger  was  averted  by 
your  marriage?"  said  Mrs,  Hart,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"It  was  averted  for  my  father's  lifetimo,  but 
now  it  remains  for  me  to  do  justice  to  those  who 
were  wronged  by  that  arrangement ;  and  justice 
shall  be  done,  even  if  Chetwynde  bus  to  bo  sac- 
rificed." 

"I  understand,"  said  Mrs.  Hart,  In  a  quiet, 
thoughtful  tone — "and  you  are  going  to  Flor- 
ence?" 

"  Yes,  in  a  few  days.  But  you  will  be  left  in 
the  care  of  those  who  love  you." 

"Lady  (Chetwynde  used  to  love  me,"  said 
Mrs,  Hart;   "and  I  loved  her," 

"  I  am  glad  to  know  that — more  so  than  I  can 
say." 

"She  was  always  tender  and  loving  and  true. 
Your  father  loved  her  like  a  daughter," 

"  So  I  have  understood," 

"You  speak  coldly." 

"  Do  I  ?  I  was  not  aware  of  it.  No  doubt 
her  care  will  be  as  much  at  your  ser%'ice  as  ever, 
and  when  I  come  back  again  I  shall  find  you  in  a 
gi'een  old  age — won't  I  ?  Say  1  shall,  my  dear 
old  nurse." 

Tears  stood  in  Mrs.  Hart's  eyes.  She  gazed 
wistfully  at  him,  but  said  nothing. 

A  few  more  interviews  took  place  between 
these  two,  and  in  a  short  time  Lord  Chetwynde 
bade  her  an  affectionate  farewell,  and  left  the 
place  once  more. 

On  the  morning  after  his  departure  Hilda  was 
in  the  morning-room  waiting  for  (Jualtier,  whom 
she  had  summoned.  Although  she  knew  that 
Lord  ( 'hetwynde  was  going  away,  yet  his  depart- 
ure seemed  sudden,  and  took  her  by  surprise. 
He  went  away  without  any  notice,  just  as  he  had 
d«ne  before,  but  somehow  she  had  expected 
some  formal  announcement  of  his  intention,  and, 
because  he  had  gone  away  without  a  word,  she 
began  to  feel  aggrieved  and  injured.  Out  of  this 
there  grew  before  her  the  memory  of  all  Lord 
Chetwynde's  coolness  toward  her,  of  the  slights 
and  insults  to  which  he  had  subjected  her,  of  the 
abhorrence  which  he  had  manifested  toward  her. 
She  felt  that  she  was  despised.  It  was  as  though 
she  had  been  foully  wronged.  To  all  these  this 
last  act  was  added.  He  had  gone  away  without  a 
word  or  a  sign — where,  she  knew  not — why,  she 
could  not  tell.  It  was  his  abhorrence  for  her 
that  had  driven  him  away — this  was  evident. 

"Hell  hath  no  fury  like  a  woman  scorned." 
And  this  woman,  wlio  found  herself  doubly  and 
trebly  scorned,  lashed  herself  into  a  fury  of  in- 
dignation. In  this  new-found  fiuy  she  found 
the  first  relief  which  she  Jiad  known  from  the 
torments  of  unretjuited  passion,  from  the  long- 
ing and  the  craving  and  the  yearning  of  her  hot 
and  fervid  nature.  Into  this  new  fit  of  indig- 
nation she  flung  herself  with  complete  abandon- 
ment. Since  he  scorned  lier,  he  should  suffer — 
this  was  her  feeling.  Since  he  refused  her  love, 
he  should  feel  her  vengeance.     He  should  know 


I 


1«6 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


that  she  might  be  hated,  but  she  was  not  one 
who  could  be  despised.  For  every  slight  which 
he  had  heai)ed  upon  her  he  should  pay  with  his 
heart's  blood.  Under  the  pangs  of  this  new 
disappointment  she  writhed  and  groaned  in  her 
anguish,  and  all  the  tumults  of  feeling  which  she 
liad  endured  ever  since  she  saw  him  now  seemed 
to  congregate  and  gather  themselves  up  into  one 
outburst  of  furious  and  implacable  vengefidness. 
Her  heart  beat  hot  and  fast  in  her  fierce  excite- 
ment. Her  face  was  pale,  but  the  hectic  Hush 
on  either  cheek  told  of  the  fires  within  ;  and  the 
nervous  agitation  of  her  manner,  her  clenched 
hands,  and  heaving  breast,  showed  that  the  last 
remnant  of  self-control  was  forgotten  and  swept 
away  in  this  furious  rush  of  passion.  It  was  in 
such  a  mood  as  this  that  Gualtier  found  her  as 
he  entered  the  morning-room  to  which  she  had 
summoned  him. 

Hilda  at  first  did  not  seem  to  see  him,  or  at 
any  rate  did  not  notice  him.  She  was  sitting 
as  before  in  a  deep  arm-chair,  in  the  depths  of 
which  her  slender  figure  seemed  lost.  Her  hands 
were  clutched  together.  Her  face  was  turned 
toward  that  portrait  over  the  fire-place,  which 
represented  Lord  Chetwynde  in  his  early  youth. 
Upon  that  face,  usually  so  like  a  mask,  so  im- 
passive, and  so  unapt  to  express  the  feelings  that 
existed  within,  there  was  now  visibly  expressed 
an  array  of  contending  emotions.  She  had 
thrown  away  or  lost  her  self-restraint;  those 
feelings  raged  and  expressed  themselves  uncon- 
trolled, and  Gualtier  for  the  first  time  saw  her 
off  her  guard.  He  entered  with  his  usual  stealthy 
tread,  and  watched  her  for  some  time  as  she 
sat  looking  at  the  picture.  He  read  in  her  face 
the  emotions  which  were  expressed  there.  He 
saw  disa])pointment,  rage,  fury,  love,  vengeance, 
pride,  and  desire  all  contending  together.  He 
learned  for  the  first  time  that  this  woman  whom 
Jie  had  believed  to  be  cold  as  an  icicle  was  as 
liot-hearted  as  a  volcano ;  that  she  was  fervid, 
impulsive,  vehement,  passionate,  intense  in  love 
and  in  hate.  As  he  learned  this  he  felt  his  soul 
sink  within  him  as  he  tl.jught  that  it  was  not  re- 
served for  him,  but  for  another,  to  call  forth  all 
the  fiery  vehemence  of  that  stormy  nature.      ♦ 

She  saw  him  at  last,  as  with  a  passionate  ges- 
ture she  tore  her  eyes  away  from  the  portrait, 
which  seemed  to  fascinate  her.  The  sight  of 
Gualtier  at  once  restored  heroutward  calm.  She 
was  herself  once  more.  Slia  waved  her  hand 
loftily  to  a  seat,  and  the  very  fact  that  she  had 
made  this  exhibition  of  feeling  before  him  seem- 
ed to  harden  that  proud  manner  which  she  usu- 
ally displayed  toward  him. 

"I  have  sent  for  you,"  said  she,  in  calm, 
measured  tones,  "for  an  important  purpose. 
You  remember  the  last  journey  on  which  I  sent 
you?" 

"Yes,  my  lady." 

"You  did  thai  well.  I  have  another  one  on 
which  I  wish  you  to  go.  It  refers  to  the  same 
person." 

"Lord  Chetwynde?" 

Hilda  bowed. 

"  I  am  readv,"  said  Gualtier. 

"He  left  tfiis  morning,  and  I  don't  know 
where  he  has  gone,  but  I  wish  you  to  go  after 
him." 

"  I  know  where  he  intended  to  go." 

"How?    Where?" 


"Some  of  the  servants  overheard  him  speak- 
ing to  Mrs.  Hart  about  going  to  Italy." 

"Italy!" 

"Yes.  I  can  come  up  with  him  somewhere, 
if  you  wish  it,  and  get  on  his  track.  But  what 
is  it  that  you  wish  me  to  do?" 

"In  the  first  place,  to  follow  him  up." 

"How — at  a  distance — or  near  him  ?  That  is 
to  say,  shall  I  travel  in  disguise,  or  shall  I  get  em- 
ploy near  his  person  ?  I  can  be  a  valet,  or  a 
courier,  or  any  thing  else." 

"Any  thing.  This  must  be  left  to  you.  1 
care  not  for  details.  The  grar  l  result  is  what  I 
look  to." 

"And  what  is  the  grand  result?" 

"Something  which  you  yourself  once  pro- 
posed," said  Hilda,  in  low,  stern  tones,  and  witii 
deep  meaning. 

Gualtier's  face  flushed.     He  understood  her. 

"I  know,"  said  he.  "  He  is  an  obstacle,  and 
you  wish  this  obstacle  removed." 

"Yes." 

"You  understand  me  exactly,  my  lady,  do 
you  ?"  asked  Gualtier,  earnestly.  "  You  wish  it 
removed — -just  as  other  obstacles  have  been  re- 
moved. You  wish  never  to  see  him  again.  You 
wish  to  be  your  own  mistress  henceforth — and 
always." 

•  You  have  stated  exactly  what  I  mean,"  said 
.lilda,  in  icy  tones. 

Gualtier  was  silent  for  some  time. 

"Lady  Chetwynde,"  said  he  at  length,  in  a 
tone  which  \\'as  strikingly  difl^erent  fiom  that 
with  which  for  years  he  had  addressed  iier — 
"Lady  Chetwynde,  I  wish  you  to  observe  that 
this  task  upon  which  you  now  send  me  is  far 
different  from  any  of  the  former  ones  which  I 
have  undertaken  at  your  bidding.  I  have  al- 
ways set  out  withoui  a  word — like  one  of  those 
Ildschishim  of  whom  you  have  read,  when  he 
received  the  mandate  of  the  Sheik  of  the  mount- 
ains. But  the  nature  of  this  errand  is  such  that 
I  may  never  see  you  again.  The  tasl^is  a  peril- 
ous one.  The  man  against  whom  I  am  sent  is 
a  man  of  singular  acuteness,  profound  judgment, 
dauntless  courage,  and  remorseless  in  his  venge- 
ance. His  acuteness  may  possibly  enable  him 
to  see  through  me,  and  frustrate  my  ])lan  before 
it  is  fairly  begun.  What  then  ?  For  me,  at 
least,  there  will  be  nothing  but  destruction.  It 
is,  therefore,  as  if  I  now  were  standing  face  to 
face  with  death,  and  so  I  crave  the  lii)erty  of  say- 
ing something  to  you  this  time,  and  not  d  part- 
ing in  silence." 

Gualtier  spoke  with  earnestness,  with  dignity, 
yet  with  j)ei'fect  respect.  There  was  that  in  his 
tone  and  manner  which  gave  iudications  of  a  far 
higher  natin-e  than  any  for  which  Hilda  had  ever 
yet  given  him  credit.  His  words  struck  her 
strangely.  They  were  not  insubordinate,  for  he 
announced  his  intention  to  obey  her ;  they  were 
not  disrespectful,  for  his  manner  was  full  of  his 
old  reverence ;  but  they  seemed  like  an  assertion 
of  something  like  manhood,  and  like  a  blow 
against  that  imdisputed  ascendency  which  she 
had  so  long  maintained  over  him.  In  spite  of 
her  i)reoccupatiou,  and  her  tempestuous  passion, 
she  was  forced  to  listen,  and  she  listened  with  ti 
vague  surprise,  looking  at  him  with  a  cold  stare. 

"Von  seem  to  me,"  said  she,  "to  speak  as 
though  you  were  unwilling  to  go — or  afraid. " 

"I'ardon  me,  Lady  Chetwynde,"  said  Gual- 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


]-)!) 


tier,  "  yon  cnn  not  think  that.  I  have  said  that 
I  -.oiiid  go,  but  that,  as  I  may  never  see  you 
f  gain,  I  wish  to  say  something.  I  wisli,  in  fact, 
now,  after  n  1  these  years,  to  have  a  final  under- 
standing with  vou." 

"  Well  ?"  said  Hikla. 

"  I  need  not  remind  yon  of  the  past,"  said 
Gualtier,  "or  of  my  blind  obedience  to  all  your 
mandates.  Two  events  at  least  stand  out  con- 
spicuously. I  have  assisted  you  to  the  best  of 
my  power.  Why  I  did  so  must  be  evident  to 
you.  You  know  very  well  that  it  was  no  sordid 
motive  on  my  part,  no  hate  toward  others,  no 
desire  for  vengeance,  but  something  far  different 
— something  which  has  animated  me  for  years,  so 
that  it  was  enough  tliat  you  gave  a  command  for 
me  to  obey.  For  years  I  have  been  thus  at  your 
call  like  a  slave,  and  now,  after  all  these  years — 
now,  that  I  dejMirt  on  my  last  and  most  perilous 
mission,  and  am  speaking  to  you  words  which 
may  possibly  be  the  last  that  you  will  ever  hear 
from  me — I  wish  to  implore  you,  to  beseech  you, 
io  promise  me  that  reward  which  you  must  know 
I  have  always  looked  forward  to,  and  which  can 
be  the  only  possible  recompense  to  one  like  me 
for  services  like  mine." 

He  stopjied  and  looked  imploringly  at  her. 

"And  what  is  that?"  asked  Hilda,  meciianic- 
ally,  as  tliough  she  did  not  fully  understand  him. 

"  Yoitrspf/',"  s.nid  Giudtier,  in  a  low,  earnest 
voice,  with  ail  his  soul  in  the  glance  which  he 
threw  upon  her. 

The  moment  that  he  said  the  word  Hilda 
started  back  with  a  gesture  of  im))atieiice  and 
contempt,  and  regarded  him  with  an  expression 
of  anger  and  indignation,  and  with  a  frown  so 
black  that  it  seemed  as  if  slie  would  have  blasted 
him  with  her  look  had  she  been  able.  Gualtier, 
however,  did  not  shrink  from  her  fierce  glance. 
His  eyes  were  no  longer  lowered  before  hers. 
He  regarded  her  fixedly,  calmly,  yet  respectfully, 
with  his  head  erect,  and  no  trace  of  his  old  un- 
reasoning submission  in  his  face  and  manner. 
Surjjrisecl  ns  Hilda  had  evidently  been  at  his 
words,  she  seemed  no  less  surprised  at  his 
changed  demeanor.  It  was  the  first  time  in  her 
life  that  she  had  seen  in  him  any  revelation  of 
manhood ;  and  that  view  opened  up  to  her  very 
un])leasant  possibilities. 

"This  is  not  a  time,"  she  said  nt  length,  in  a 
sharp  voice,  "for  such  nonsense  as  this." 

"  1  beg  your  pardon,  Lady  Chetwynde,"  said 
Gualtier,  firmly,  "  I  think  thr  ♦  this  and  no  other 
is  the  time.  Whether  it  be  'nonsense'  or  not 
need  not  be  debated.  It  is  any  thing  but  non- 
sense to  me.  All  my  past  life  seems  to  sweep  up 
to  this  moment,  and  now  is  the  crisis  of  my  fate. 
All  my  future  depends  upon  it,  whether  for  weal 
or  woe.  I>ady  Chetwynde,  do  not  call  it  non- 
sense— do  not  underrate  its  importance.  Do 
not,  I  implore  you,  iniderrate  me.  Thus  far  you 
have  tacitly  assumed  that  I  am  a  feeble  and  al- 
most iml)ecile  character.  It  is  true  that  my  ab- 
"  ject  devotion  to  you  has  forced  ~ne  to  give  a 
blind  obedience  to  all  your  wisheh  But  mark 
this  well.  Lady  Chetwynde,  such  obedience  it- 
self involved  some  of  the  highest  qualities  of 
manhood.  Something  like  courage  and  forti- 
tude and  daring  wos  necessary  to  carry  out  those 
plans  of  yours  which  I  so  willingly  undertook. 
I  do  not  wish  to  speak  of  myself,  however.  I 
only  wish  tu  show  you  that  I  am   in  earnest, 


and  that  though  yon  may  treat  this  occasion  with 
levity,  I  can  not.  All  my  life,  Lady  Chetwynde, 
hangs  on  your  answer  to  my  question." 

Gualtier's  manner  was  most  vehement,  and 
indicative  of  the  strongest  emotion,  but  the  tones 
of  his  voice  were  low  and  only  audible  to  Hilda. 
Low  as  the  voice  was,  however,  it  still  none  the 
less  exhibited  the  intensity  of  the  passion  that 
was  in  his  soul. 

Hilda,  on  the  contrary,  evinced  a  stronger  rage 
at  every  word  which  he  uttered.  The  baleful 
light  of  her  dark  eyes  grew  more  fiery  in  its  con- 
centrated anger  and  scorn. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  said  she,  in  her  most  con- 
temptuous tone,  "that  you  engage  to  do  my 
will  only  on  certain  conditions  ;  and  that  you  are 
taking  advantage  of  my  necessities  in  order  to 
drive  a  bargain." 

"  You  are  right.  Lady  Chetwynde,"  said  Gual- 
tier, calmly.  "  I  am  trying  to  drive  a  bargain  ; 
but  remember  it  is  not  for  money — it  is  for  your- 
se/f." 

"And  I,"  said  Hilda,  with  unchanged  scorn, 
"will  never  sul>mit  to  such  coercion.  When 
you  dare  to  dictate  to  me,  you  mistake  my  char- 
acter utterly.  What  I  have  to  give  I  will  give 
freely.  My  gifts  shall  never  be  extorted  from 
me,  even  though  my  life  should  depend  upon  my 
compliance  or  refusal.  The  tone  which  you  have 
chosen  to  adopt  toward  me  is  scarcely  one  that 
will  make  me  swerve  from  my  purpose,  or  alter 
any  decision  which  I  may  have  made.  You  have 
deceived  yourself.     You  seem  to  suppose  that 

;  you  are  indispensable  to  me,  and  that  this  :«  the 

I  time  when  you  can  force  upon  me  any  conditions 

1  you  choose.  As  far  as  that  is  concerned,  let  me 
tell  you  plainly  that  you  may  do  what  you  choose. 

■  and  either  go  on  this  errand  or  stay.     In  any 

j  case,  by  no  possibility,  will  I  make  any  promise 

I  whatever. " 

I      This  Hilda  said  quickly,  and  in  her  usual 

t  scorn.  She  thought  that  such  indifference  might 
bring  Gualtier  to  terms,  and  make  him  decide  to 
obey  her  without  extorting  this  promise.  For 
a  moment  she  thought  that  she  hnd  succeeded. 
At  her  words  a  change  came  over  Gualtier's  face. 
Ue  looked  humbled  and  sad.  As  she  ceased,  he 
turned  his  eyes  imploringly  to  her,  and  said : 

i  "Lady  Chetwynde,  do  not  say  that.  I  en- 
treat you  to  give  me  this  promise." 

I      "I  will  not!"  said  Hilda,  sharply. 

I      "Once  more  I  entreat  you,''  said  Gualtier, 

;  more  earnestly. 

j  "Once  more  I  refuse,"  said  Hilda.  "Goand 
do   this   thing   first,  and  then  come  and  ask 

^  me." 

I      "  Will  you  then  promise  me  ?" 

I      "  I  will  tell  you  nothing  now." 

!      "Lady  Chetwynde,  for  the  last  time  I  iwplorr 

i  you  to  give  me  some  ground  for  hope  at  least. 
Tell  me— if  this  thing  be  accomplished,  will  you 
give  me  what  I  want  ?" 

I      "I  will  make  no  engagement  whatever,"  said 

I  Hilda,  coldly. 

Gualtier  at  this  seemed  to  raise  himself  at 

'  once  above  his  dejection,  his  humility,  and  his 

!  prayerful  attitude,  to  a  new  and  stronger  asser- 

'  tion  of  himself. 

]      "Very  well,"  said  he,  gravely  and  sternly. 

j  "  Now  listen  to  me.  Lady  Chetwynde.     I  will 

I  no  longer  entreat — I  iiutist  that  you  give  me  this 

I  promise. " 


:'Mi.Mji»«M»v.  n  ,1  pi^i  i|  i|iimfiqmfipitffninniP!Mi 


s^^^flr 


160 


THE  CRYPTOiiRAM. 


"Insist!" 

Nothing  can  describe  the  scorn  and  contempt 
of  Hilda's  tone  as  she  uttered  this  word. 

"I  repeat  it,"  said  Giialtier,  calmly,  and  with 
deeper  emphasis.  ^^  I  insist  that  you  give  me 
your  promise." 

"My  friend,"  said  Hilda,  contemptuously, 
"you  do  not  seem  to  understand  our  positions. 
This  seems  to  me  like  impertinence,  and,  unless 
you  make  an  apology,  I  shall  he  under  the  very 
tmplcasant  necessity  of  ohtaining  a  new  stew- 
ard." 

As  Hilda  said  this  she  turned  paler  than  ever 
with  suppressed  rage. 

Gualtier  smiled  scornfully. 

" It  seems  to  me,"  said  he,  "  that  you  are  the 
one  who  does  not.  or  will  not,  understand  our 
respective  positions.  You  will  not  dismiss  me 
from  the  stewardship.  Lady  Chetwynde,  for  you 
will  be  too  sensible  for  that.  You  will  retain  me 
in  that  dignified  office,  for  you  know  that  I  am 
indispensable  to  you,  though  you  seemed  to  deny 
it  a  moment  since.  You  have  not  forgotten  the 
relations  which  we  bear  to  one  another.  There 
arc  certain  memories  which  rise  between  us  two 
which  will  never  escape  the  recollection  of  either 
of  us  till  the  latest  moment  of  our  lives ;  some 
of  these  are  associated  with  the  General,  some 
with  the  Earl,  and  some — with  Zillah  .'" 

He  stopped,  as  though  the  mention  of  that  last 
name  had  overpowered  him.  As  for  Hilda,  the 
pallor  of  her  face  grew  deeper,  and  she  trembled 
with  mingled  agitation  and  rage. 

"Go!"  said  she.  "Go!  and  let  me  never 
see  your  face  again !" 

"No,"  said  Gualtier,  "I  will  not  go  till  I 
choose.  As  to  seeing  mv  face  again,  the  wish  is 
easier  said  than  gained.  No,  I^ady  Chetwynde. 
You  are  in  my  poioer  !  You  know  it.  I  tell  it 
to  you  here,  and  nothing  can  save  you  from  me 
if  I  turn  against  you.  You  have  never  under- 
stood me,  for  you  have  never  taken  the  trouble 
lO  do  so.  You  have  shown  but  little  mercy  to- 
ward me.  When  I  have  come  home  from  serv- 
ing you — xjov  know  hoiv — hungering  and  thirst- 
ing for  some  slight  act  of  a])prociation,  some 
token  of  thankfulness,  you  have  always  repelled 
me,  and  denied  what  I  dared  not  request.  Had 
you  but  given  me  the  kind  attention  which  a 
master  gives  to  a  dog,  I  would  have  followed  you 
like  a  dog  to  the  world's  end,  and  died  for  you 
— like  a  dog,  too,"  he  added,  in  an  under-tone. 
"But  you  have  used  me  a.,  a  stepping-stone; 
thinking  that,  like  such,  I  could  be  spurned  aside 
when  you  N.ere  done  with  me.  You  have  not 
thought  that  I  am  not  a  stone  or  a  block,  but  a 
man,  with  a  man's  heart  within  me.  And  it  is 
now  as  a  man  that  I  speak  to  you,  because  you 
force  me  to  it.  1  tell  you  this,  that  you  are  in 
my  jiower,  and  you  must  be  mine!" 

"Are  you  a  madman?"  cried  Hilda,  over- 
whelmed with  amazement  at  this  outburst. 
"Have  you  lost  your  senses?  Fool!  If  you 
mean  what  you  say,  I  defy  you !  Go,  and  use 
your  i)ower !  /  in  the  power  of  such  as  you  ? — 
Never!" 

Her  brows  contracted  as  she  spoke,  and  from 
beneath  her  black  eyes  seemed  to  shoot  baleful 
fires  of  hate  and  rage  unutterable  The  full  in- 
tensity of  her  nature  was  aroused,  and  the  ex- 
pression of  her  face  wn^  torrilde  in  its  fury  and 
malignancy.     But  Gualtier  did  not  recoil.     On 


the  contrary,  he  feasted  his  eyes  on  her,  and  a 
smile  came  to  his  features. 

"You  are  beautiful!"  said  he.  "You  have 
a  demon  beauty  that  is  overpowering.  Ob,  beau- 
tiful fiend !  You  can  not  resist.  You  must  be 
mine — and  you  shall !  I  never  saw  you  so  love- 
ly.    I  love  you  best  in  your  fits  of  rage." 

"Fool!"  cried  Hilda.  "This  is  enough.  You 
are  mad,  or  else  drunk  ;  in  either  case  you  shall 
not  stay  another  day  in  Chetwynde  Castle.  Go ! 
or  I  will  order  the  servants  to  put  you  out." 

"There  will  be  no  occasion  for  that,"  said 
Gualtier,  coolly,  "  I  am  going  to  leave  you  this 
very  night  to  join  Lord  Chetwynde. " 

"  It  is  too  late  now ;  your  valuable  services 
are  no  longer  needed,"  said  Hilda,  with  a  sneer. 
"  You  may  spare  yourself  the  trouble  of  such  a 
journey.  Let  me  know  what  is  due  you,  and  I 
will  pay  it." 

"  You  will  pay  me  only  one  thing,  and  that  is 
yourseJf"  said  Gualtier.  "  If  you  do  not  choose 
to  pay  that  price  you  must  take  the  consequences. 
I  am  going  to  join  Lord  Chetwynde,  whether  you 
wish  me  to  or  not.  But,  remember  this  I"' — and 
Gualtier's  voice  grew  menacing  in  its  intona- 
tions— "vimember  this;  it  depends  u])ou  you 
in  what  capacity  I  am  to  join  him.  You  are  the 
one  who  must  say  whether  I  shall  go  to  him  as 
his  enemy  or  his  friend.  If  I  go  as  his  enemy, 
you  know  what  will  happen ;  if  I  go  as  his 
friend,  it  if>  you  who  must  fall.  Now,  Lady 
Chetwynde,  do  you  understand  me  ?" 

As  Guhltier  said  this  there  was  a  dee])  mean- 
ing in  his  words  which  Hilda  could  not  fail  to 
understand,  and  there  was  at  the  same  time  such 
firmness  and  solemn  decision  that  she  felt  that 
he  would  certainly  do  as  he  said.  She  saw  at 
once  the  peril  that  lay  be*"  e  her.  An  alterna- 
tive was  offered  :  the  one  was,  to  come  to  terms 
with  him ;  the  other,  to  accept  utter  and  hope- 
less ruin.  That  ruin,  too,  which  he  menaced 
was  no  common  one.  It  was  one  which  placed 
her  under  the  grasp  of  the  law,  and  from  which 
no  foreign  land  could  shelter  her.  All  her  pros- 
pects, her  plans,  her  hopes,  were  in  that  instant 
dashed  away  from  before  her ;  aiul  she  realized 
now,  to  the  fullest  extent;  the  frightful  truth 
that  she  was  indeed  completely  in  the  power  of 
this  man.  The  discovery  of  this  acted  on  her 
like  a  shock,  which  sobered  her  and  drove  away 
her  passion. 

She  said  nothing  in  reply,  bnt  si.t  .i^wn  in  si- 
lence, and  remained  a  long  time  without  speak- 
ing. Gualtier,  on  his  part,  saw  the  effect  of  his 
last  words,  but  he  made  no  effort  to  interrupt 
her  thoughts.  He  coidd  not  yet  tell  what  she  in 
her  desperation  might  decide;  he  could  only 
wait  for  her  answer.    He  stood  wailing  patiently. 

At  last  Hilda  spoke : 

"  You've  told  me  bitter  truths — but  they  are 
truths.  Unfortunately,  I  am  in  your  power.  If 
you  choose  to  coerce  me  I  must  yield,  for  I  am 
not  yet  ready  to  accept  ruiu." 

"  You  jjroniise  then?" 

"Since  I  must— I  do." 

"Thank  you,"  said  Gualti  "and  now  you 
will  not  see  me  again  till  la  over  either  with 
him  or  with  me." 

He  bowed  respectfully  and  dej)arted.  After 
he  had  left,  Hilda  sat  looking  at  the  door  with  n 
face  of  rage  and  malignant  fury.  At  length, 
starting  to  her  feet,  she  hurried  up  to  her  room. 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


n\ 


mv  you 
'I-  witli 

After 
with  n 
length, 
room. 


CHAPTER  XL VII. 


HILDA  SEES  A   OCLF   BENEATH   HEB   FEET. 

The  astonish' ng  change  in  Gualtier  wns  an 
overwlielming  f.hock  to  Hilda.  She  had  com- 
mitted the  fatal  mistake  of  underrating  him,  and 
of  putting  herself  completely  in  his  power.  She 
had  counted  on  his  being  always  humble  and 
docile,  always  subservient  and  blindly  obedient. 
She  had  put  from  her  all  thoughts  of  a  possible 
day  of  reckoning.  She  had  fostered  his  devo- 
tion to  her  so  as  to  be  used  for  her  own  ends,  and 
now  found  that  she  had  raised  up  a  power  which 
might  sweep  her  away.  In  the  first  assertion  of 
that  power  she  had  been  vanquished,  and  com- 
pelled to  make  a  promise  which  she  had  at  first 
refused  with  the  haughtiest  contempt.  She  could 
only  take  refuge  in  vague  plans  of  evading  her 
promise,  and  in  punishing  Gualtier  for  what 
seemed  to  her  his  unparalleled  audacity. 

Yet,  after  all,  bitter  as  the  humiliation  had 
been,  it  did  not  lessen  her  fervid  passion  for  Lord 
Chetwynde,  and  the  hate  and  the  vengeance  that 
had  arisen  when  that  passion  had  been  con- 
temned. After  the  first  shock  of  the  affair  with 
Gualtier  had  passed,  her  madness  and  fury 
against  him  passed  also,  and  her  wild  spirit  was 
once  again  filled  with  the  all-engrossing  thought 
of  Lord  Chetwynde.  Gualtier  had  gone  off,  as 
he  said,  and  she  was  to  see  him  no  more  for 
some  time — perhaps  never.  lie  had  his  own 
plans  and  purposes,  of  the  details  of  which  Hil- 
da knew  nothing,  but  could  only  conjecture. 
Slie  felt  that  failure  on  his  part  was  not  probable, 
and  gradually,  so  confident  was  she  that  he 
would  succeed,  Lord  Chetwynde  began  to  seem 
to  her  not  merely  a  doomed  man,  but  a  man  who 
liad  already  undergone  his  doom.  And  now 
another  change  came  over  her — that  change 
which  Death  can  make  in  the  heart  of  the  most 
implacable  of  men  when  his  enemy  has  left  life 
forever.  From  the  pangs  of  wounded  love  she 
had  sought  refuge  in  vengeance — but  the  pros- 
jiect  of  a  gratified  vengeance  was  but  a  poor 
compensation  for  the  loss  of  the  hope  of  a  re- 
([uited  love.  The  tenderness  of  love  still  re- 
mained, and  it  struggled  with  the  ferocity  of 
vengeance.  That  love  pleaded  powerfully  for 
Lord  Chetwynde 's  life.  Hope  came  also,  to 
lend  its  as.sistance  to  the  arguments  of  love. 
Would  it  not  be  better  to  wait — even  for  years — 
and  tiien  pe  'haps  the  fierceness  of  Lord  Chet- 
wynde's  repugnance  might  be  allayed?  Why 
destroy  him,  and  her  hope,  and  her  love,  for- 
ever, and  HO  hastily?  After  such  thoughts  as 
these,  however,  the  remembrance  of  Lord  Chet- 
wynde's  contempt  was  sure  to  return  and  intens- 
ify her  vengeance. 

Under  such  circumstances,  when  distracted  by 
so  many  cares,  it  is  not  surprising  that  she  for- 
got all  about  Mrs.  Hart.  She  had  understood 
the  f"ll  meaning  of  Gualtier's  warning  about  her 
prospective  recovery,  but  the  danger  passed  from 
her  mind.  Gualtier  had  gone  on  his  errand,  and 
she  wns  sure  ho  would  not  falter.  Siint  up  in 
her  own  chamber,  she  awaited  in  deep  agitation 
the  first  tidings  which  he  might  send.  Day  suc- 
ceeded to  day ;  no  tidings  came ;  and  at  Inst  she 
l>egan  to  hope  that  he  had  failed — and  the  pleas- 
iintest  sight  which  she  could  have  seen  nt  that 
time  would  have  been  Gualtier  returning  disap' 
pointed  and  baffled. 


Meanwhile,  Mrs.  Hart,  left  to  herself,  steadily 
and  rapidly  recovered.  Ever  since  her  first  rec- 
ognition of  Lord  Chetwynde  her  improvement  had 
been  marked.  New  ideas  seemed  to  have  come 
to  her ;  new  motives  for  life ;  and  with  these  the 
desire  of  life ;  and  at  the  promptings  of  that  de- 
sire health  came  back.  This  poor  creature,  even 
in  the  best  days  of  her  life  at  Chetwynde  Castle, 
had  not  known  any  health  beyond  that  of  a 
moderate  kind ;  and  so  a  moderate  recovery 
would  suffice  to  give  her  what  strength  she  had 
lost.  To  he  able  to  wander  about  the  house  once 
more  was  all  that  she  needed,  and  this  was  not 
long  denied  her. 

In  a  few  days  after  Gualtier's  departure  she 
was  able  to  go  about.  She  walked  through  the  old 
familiar  scenes,  traversed  the  well-known  halls, 
and  surveyed  the  well-remembered  apartments. 
One  journey  was  enough  for  the  first  day.  The 
next  day  she  went  about  the  grounds,  and  visited 
the  chapel,  where  she  sat  for  hours  on  the  Earl's 
tomb,  wrapped  in  an  absorbing  meditation.  Two 
or  three  days  passed  on,  and  she  walked  about 
as  she  used  to.  And  now  a  strong  desire 
seized  her  to  see  that  wife  of  Lord  Chetwynde 
whom  she  so  dearly  loved  and  so  fondly  reinem- 
bered.  She  wondered  that  Lady  Chetwynde  had 
not  come  to  see  her.  She  was  informed  that 
Lady  Chetwynde  was  ill.  A  deep  sympathy  then 
arose  in  her  heart  for  the  poor  friendless  lady — 
the  fair  girl  whom  she  remembered — and  whom 
she  now  pictured  to  herself  as  bereaved  of  her 
father,  and  scorned  by  her  husband.  For  Mrs. 
Hart  rightly  divined  the  meaning  of  Lord  Chet- 
wynde's  words.  She  thought  long  over  this,  and 
at  last  there  arose  within  her  a  deep  yearning  to  go 
and  see  this  poor  friendless  orphaned  girl,  whose 
life  had  been  so  sad,  and  was  still  so  mournful. 

So  one  day,  full  of  such  tender  feelings  as 
these,  and  carrying  in  her  mind  the  image  of 
that  beautiful  young  girl  who  once  had  been  so 
daar  to  her,  she  went  up  herself  to  the  room 
where  Hilda  staid,  and  asked  the  maid  for 
Lady  Chetwynde. 

"  She  is  ill,"  said  the  maid. 

Mrs.  Hart  waved  her  aside  with  serene  dignity 
and  entered.  The  maid  stood  awe-struck.  For 
Mrs.  Hart  had  the  air  and  the  tone  of  a  lady, 
and  now  when  her  will  was  aroused  she  very  well 
knew  how  to  put  down  an  unruly  servant.  So 
she  walked  grandly  past  the  maid,  who  looked  in 
awe  upon  her  stately  figure,  her  white  face,  with 
its  refined  features,  and  her  venerable  hair,  and 
passed  through  the  half-opened  door  into  Hilda's 
room. 

Hilda  had  been  sitting  on  the  sofa,  which  was 
near  the  window.  She  wns  looking  out  abstract- 
edly, thinking  upon  the  great  problem  which  lay 
before  tier,  upon  the  solution  of  which  she  could 
not  decide,  when  suddenly  she  became  aware  of 
some  one  in  the  room.  She  looked  up.  It  was 
Mrs.  Hart! 

At  the  sight  her  blood  chilled  within  her. 
Her  face  was  overspread  with  an  expression  of 
utter  horror.  The  shock  was  tremendous.  She 
hnd  forgotten  all  about  the  woman.  Mrs.  Hart 
had  been  to  her  like  the  dead,  and  now  to  see 
her  thus  suddenly  was  like  the  sight  of  the  dead. 
Had  the  dead  l^inrlcome  into  her  room  and  stood 
l)efore  her  in  the  cerements  of  the  grave  she 
would  not  have  been  one  whit  more  horrified, 
mure  bewildered. 


162 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


But  soon  in  that  strong  mind  of  hers  reason 
regained  its  place.  She  saw  how  it  had  been, 
and  though  she  still  wondered  how  Mrs.  Hart 
iiad  come  into  her  room,  yet  she  prepared  as  best 
she  might  to  deal  with  this  new  and  unexpected 
danger.  She  arose,  carefully  closed  the  door, 
and  then  turning  to  Mrs.  Hart  she  took  her  hand, 
and  said,  simply, 

"I'm  so  glad  to  see  you  about  again." 

"  Where  is  Lady  Chetwynde  ?" 

This  was  all  that  Mrs.  Hart  said,  as  .she  with- 
drew her  hand  and  looked  all  about  the  room. 

Like  lightning  Hilda's  plan  was  decided 
upon. 

"Wait  a  moment,"  said  she ;  and,  going  into 
the  ante-room,  she  sent  her  maid  away  upon  some 
errand  that  would  detain  her  for  some  time. 
Then  she  came  back  and  motioned  Mrs.  Hart  to 
a  chair,  while  she  took  another. 

"])id  not  Lord  Chetwynde  tell  j'ou  about 
Lady  Chetwynde '?"  she  asked,  very  cautiously. 
She  was  anxious,  first  of  all,  to  see  how  much 
Mrs.  Hart  knew. 

"No,"  said  Mrs.  Hart,  "he  scarcely  men- 
tioned her  name."  She  looked  suspiciously  at 
Hilda  while  she  spoke. 

"That  is  strange,"  said  Hilda.  "Had  you 
any  conversations  with  him '(" 

"Yes,  several." 

"  And  he  did  not  tell  you  ?" 

"He  told  me  nothing  about  her,"  said  Mrs. 
Hart,  dryly. 

Hilda  drew  a  long  breath  of  relief. 

"  H's  a  secret  in  this  house,"  said  she,  "but 
you  nmst  know  it.  I  will  tell  you  all  about  it. 
After  the  Earl's  death  Lady  Chetwynde  ha])- 
peneil  to  come  across  some  letters  written  by  his 
son,  in  which  the  utmost  abiiorrence  wasex])ress- 
ed  for  the  girl  whom  he  had  married.  I  dare 
say  the  letters  are  among  the  papers  yet,  and 
you  can  see  them.  One  in  particular  was  fear- 
ful in  its  denunciations  of  her.  He  reviled  lier, 
called  her  by  oi)probrious  e])ithets,  and  told  his 
father  that  he  would  never  consent  to  see  lier. 
Lady  C'hetwynde  saw  all  these.  You  know  how 
high-spirited  she  was.  She  at  once  took  fire  at 
these  insults,  and  declared  that  she  would  never 
consent  to  see  Lord  Chetwynde.  She  wrote  him 
to  that  effect,  and  then  departed  from  Chetwynde 
Castle  forevei'." 

Mrs.  Hart  listened  with  a  stem,  sad  face,  and 
said  not  a  word. 

"  I  went  with  her  to  a  place  where  she  is  now 
liring  in  seclusion.  I  don't  think  that  Lord 
Chetwynde  would  have  come  home  if  he  had 
not  known  that  she  had  left.  Hearing  this, 
however,  he  at  once  came  here. " 

"  /  !■'  vcu?''  said  Mrs.  Hart,  "  what  are  you 
doing  i'  e?  Are  you  the  Lady  Chetwynde  of 
whom  the  servants  speak '?" 

"I  am,  temi)orarily,"  said  Hilda,  with  a  sad 
smile.  "It  wiw  Zillah's  wish.  Siie  wanted  to 
avoid  a  scandal.  She  sent  off  all  the  old  servants, 
hired  new  ones,  and  persiuided  me  to  stay  here 
for  a  time  as  Lady  Chetwynde.  She  found  a 
dear  old  creature  to  nurse  you,  and  never  ceases 
to  write  about  you  and  ask  how  you  are." 

"And  you  live  here  as  Lady  Chetwynde?" 
asked  Mrs.  Hart,  sternly. 

"Tem|K)rarily,"  said  Hilda — "that  was  the 
arrangement  between  us.  Zillah  did  not  want 
to  have  the  name  of  Chetwynde  dishonored  by 


stories  that  his  wife  had  run  awjiy  from  him. 
She  wrote  Lord  Chetwynde  to  that  effect.  When 
Lord  Chetwynde  arrived  I  saw  him  in  the  libra- 
ry, and  he  requesteil  me  to  stay  here  for  some 
months  until  he  had  arranged  his  plans  for  tin- 
future.  It  was  very  considerate  in  Zillah,  but  ar 
the  same  time  it  is  very  embarrassing  to  me,  aiul 
I  am  looking  eagerly  forward  to  the  time  when 
this  deceit  can  be  over,  and  I  can  rejoin  my 
friend  once  more.  I  am  so  glad,  my  dear  Mrs. 
Hart,  that  you  came  in.  It  is  such  a  relief  to 
have  some  one  to  whom  I  can  unburden  myself. 
I  am  very  miserable,  and  I  imagine  all  the  time 
that  tiie  servants  su.spect  me.  You  will,  of 
course,  keej)  this  a  profound  secret,  will  you  not, 
my  dear  Mrs.  Hart?  and  helj)  me  to  play  this 
wretched  part,  which  my  love  for  Zillah  has  led 
me  to  undertake  ?" 

Hilda's  tone  was  that  of  an  innocent  and  sim- 
])Ie  girl  who  foimd  herself  in  a  false  i)Osition. 
-Mrs.  Hart  listened  earnestly  without  a  word,  ex- 
cept occasionally.  The  severe  rigidity  of  her 
features  never  relaxed.  M'hat  effect  this  story, 
so  well  told,  ]»roduced  u])ou  her,  Hilda  could  nor, 
know.  At  length,  however,  she  had  finished, 
and  Mrs.  Hart  arose. 

"You  will  keep  Zillah 's  secret?"  said  Hilda, 
earnestly.  "It  is  for  the  sake  of  Lord  Chet- 
wynde. " 

"  You  will  never  find  me  capable  of  doing  any 
thing  that  is  against  his  interests,"  said  Mrs. 
Hart,  solemnly  ;  and  without  a  bow,  or  an  adieu, 
she  retired.  She  went  back  to  her  own  room  to 
ponder  over  this  astonishing  story. 

Meanwhile,  Hilda,  left  alone  to  herself,  was 
not  altogether  satisfied  with  the  impression  which 
had  been  nuide  on  Mrs.  Hart.  She  herself  hjul 
played  her  part  admirably — her  story,  long  pi  - 
l)ared  in  ca.se  of  some  sudden  need  like  this,  was 
coherent  and  natural.  It  was  spoken  Huently 
and  imhesitatingly ;  nothing  could  have  been 
better  in  its  way,  or  more  convincing ;  and  yet 
she  was  not  satisfied  with  Mrs.  I  lart's  demeanor. 
Her  face  was  too  stern,  her  numner  too  frigid: 
the  (juestions  which  she  had  asked  spoke  of  sus- 
picion. All  these  were  nnplea.sant,  and  calcu- 
lated to  awaken  her  fears.  Her  jiosition  had  al- 
ways been  one  of  extreme  peril,  and  she  had 
dreaded  some  visitor  who  might  remember  her 
face.  She  had  feared  the  doctor  most,  and  had 
carefully  kejjt  out  of  his  way.  She  had  not 
thought  until  lately  of  the  possibility  of  Mrs. 
Hart's  recovery.  This  came  upon  her  with  a 
suddenness  that  was  bewildering,  and  the  con- 
se(|uences  she  could  not  foretell. 

And  now  another  fear  suggested  itself  Might 
not  Lord  ('hetwynde  himself  have  some  suspi- 
cions ?  Would  not  such  suspicions  account  for 
hiscoldness  and  severity  ?  Terhaps  he  suspected 
the  truth,  and  was  preparing  some  way  in  which 
she  could  be  entrapped  aiid  punished.  Perha|)s 
his  mysterious  l)usines<:  in  London  related  to  this 
alone.  The  thought  filled  her  with  alarm,  and 
now  she  rejoiced  that  Gualtier  was  on  his  track. 
She  began  to  believe  that  she  could  never  be  safe 
until  Lord  Chetwynde  was  "  removed."  And  if 
Lord  Chetwynde,  then  others.  Who  was  this 
Mrs.  Hart  that  she  should  have  any  power  of 
troubling  her?  Measures  might  easily  be  taken 
for  silencing  her  forever,  and  for  "removing" 
such  a  feeble  old  obstacle  as  this.  Hilda  knew 
means  by  which  this  couiu  bo  effected.     She 


K^'  l|P   -r>.    N  I   ■  .«j<^-"         U.'  ^  F 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


168 


'SHE   STOOD   FOR  A   LITTLE   WHILE   AND   LISTENED. 


knew  the  way  bj-  which  the  deed  could  be  done, 
and  she  hnd  nerve  enongh  to  do  it. 

The  apjKiarance  of  this  new  danger  in  Chet- 
>v_vndc  (bustle  itself  gave  a  new  direction  to  her 
troubles.     It  was  as  though  u  guif  had  suddenly 


yawned  beneath  her  feet.  All  that  night  she  lay 
deliberating  as  to  what  was  best  to  do  under  the 
circumstances.  Mrs.  Hart  was  safe  enough  for 
a  day  or  two,  but  what  iniKlit  she  not  do  here- 
after in  the  way  of  mischief?    She  could  not  ba 


iiMi  III  i.iii^«ifp!*q|^!iiiL .\r  pi u. iif!Jim>Ki,f'i^^9m>m 


164 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM, 


got  rid  of,  either,  in  an  ordinary  way.  She  had 
been  so  long  in  Chetwynde  Castle  that  it  seemed 
morally  impossible  to  dislodge  her.  Certainly 
she  was  not  one  who  could  be  paid  and  packed 
off  to  some  distant  place  like  the  other  servants. 
There  was  only  one  way  to  get  rid  of  her,  and  to 
this  one  way  Hilda's  thoughts  turned  gloomily. 

Over  this  thought  she  brooded  through  all  the 
following  day.  Kvening  came,  and  twilight 
deepened  into  darkness.  At  about  ten  o'clock 
Hilda  left  her  room  and  quietly  descended  the 
great  staircase,  and  went  over  toward  the  chamber 
occupied  by  Mrs.  Hart.  Arriving  at  the  door  she 
stood  without  for  a  little  while  and  listene'^. 
There  was  no  noise.  She  gave  a  turn  to  the 
knob  and  found  that  the  door  was  opeu.  ^  The 
room  was  dark.  She  has  gone  to  bed,  she 
thought.  She  went  back  to  her  own  room  again, 
and  in  about  half  an  hour  she  returned.  The 
door  of  Mrs.  Hart's  room  remained  ajar  as  she 
had  left  it.  She  pushed  it  farther  open,  and  put 
her  head  in.  All  was  still.  There  were  no 
sounds  of  breathing  there.  Slowly  and  cau- 
tiously she  advanced  into  the  room.  She  drew 
nearer  to  the  bed.  There  was  no  light  whatever, 
and  in  the  intense  darkness  no  outline  revealed 
the  form  of  the  bed  to  her.  Nearer  and  nearer 
she  drew  to  the  bed,  until  at  last  she  touched  it. 
Gently,  yet  swiftly,  her  hands  passed  over  its  sur- 
face, along  the  quilts,  up  to  the  pillows.  An  in- 
voluntary cry  burst  from  her — 

The  bed  was  empty ! 


CHAPTER  XLVIII.  '• 

FKOM  LOVE  TO  VBNOEANCK,  AND  FROH  VKNGE- 
ANCE  TO  LOVfi. 

Ov  the  night  of  this  last  event,  before  she  re- 
tired to  bed,  Hilda  learned  more.  Leaving  Mrs. 
Hart's  room,  she  called  at  the  housekeeper's 
chambers  to  see  if  the  missing  woman  might  be 
there.  The  housekeeper  informed  her  that  she 
had  left  at  an  early  hour  that  morning,  without 
saying  a  word  to  any  one,  and  that  she  herself 
had  taken  it  for  granted  that  her  ladyship  knew 
nU  about  it.  Hilda  heard  this  without  any  com- 
ment ;  and  then  walked  thoughtfully  to  her  own 
room. 

She  certainly  had  enough  care  on  her  mind  to 
occupy  all  her  thoughts.  The  declaration  of 
Gualtier  was  of  itself  an  ill-omened  event,  and 
she  no  longer  had  that  trust  in  his  fidelity  which 
she  once  had,  even  thougli  he  now  might  work 
in  the  hope  of  a  reward.  It  seemed  to  her  that 
with  the  loss  of  her  old  apcendeney  over  him 
she  would  lose  altogether  his  devotion  ;  nor  could 
the  remembrance  of  his  former  services  banish 
that  deep  distrust  of  him  which,  along  with  her 
bitter  resentment  of  his  rebellion,  had  arisen  in 
her  mind.  The  affair  of  Mrs.  Hart  seemed 
worse  yet.  Her  sudden  appearance,  her  sharp 
questionings,  her  cold  incredulity,  terminated  at 
last  by  her  prompt  flight,  were  all  circumstances 
which  filled  her  with  the  most  gloomy  forebod- 
ings. Her  troubles  seemed  now  to  increase  every 
day,  each  one  coming  with  startling  suddenness, 
and  each  one  being  of  that  sort  against  which 
no  precautions  had  been  taken,  or  even  thought 
of. 

She  passed  an  anxious  day  and  a  sleepless 


night.  On  the  following  morning  a  letter  was 
brought  to  her.  It  had  a  foreign  post-murk,  and 
the  address  showed  the  handwriting  of  Gualtier. 
This  at  once  brought  back  the  old  feelings  about 
Lord  Chetwynde,  and  she  tore  it  open  with  fe- 
verish impatience,  eager  to  know  what  the  con- 
tents might  be,  yet  half  fearful  of  their  import. 
It  was  written  in  that  tone  of  respect  which 
Gualtier  had  never  lost  but  once,  and  which  he 
had  now  resumed.  He  informed  her  that  on 
leaving  Chetwynde  he  had  gone  at  once  up  to 
London,  and  found  that  Lord  Chetwynde  was 
stopping  at  the  same  hotel  where  he  had  put  up 
last.  Ho  formed  a  bold  design,  which  he  put  in 
execution,  trusting  to  the  fact  that  Lord  Chet- 
wynde had  never  seen  him  more  than  twice  at 
the  Castle,  and  on  both  occasions  had  seemed  not 
even  to  have  looked  at  him.  He  therefore  got 
himself  up  very  carefully  in  a  foreign  fashion, 
and,  as  he  spoke  French  perfectly,  he  went  to 
Lord  Chetwynde  and  offered  himself  as  a  valet 
or  courier.  It  happened  that  Lord  Chetwynde 
actually  needed  a  man  to  serve  him  in  this  capac- 
ity, a  fact  which  Gualtier  had  found  out  in  the 
hotel,  and  so  the  advent  of  the  valet  was  quite 
welcome.  After  a  brief  conversation,  and  an  in- 
quiry into  his  knowledge  of  the  languages  and 
the  routes  of  travel  on  the  Continent,  Lord  Chet- 
wynde examined  his  letters  of  recommendation, 
and,  fmding  them  very  satisfactory,  ho  took  him 
into  his  employ.  They  remained  two  days  lon- 
ger in  London,  during  which  Gualtier  made  such 
good  use  of  his  time  and  opportunities  that  he 
managed  to  gain  access  to  Lord  Chetwynde's 
papers,  but  found  among  them  nothing  of  any 
importance  whatever,  from  which  he  concluded 
that  all  his  papers  of  any  consequence  must  have 
been  deposited-  with  his  solicitors.  At  any  rate 
it  was  impossible  for  him  to  find  out  any  thing 
from  this  source. 

Leaving  London  they  went  to  Paris,  where 
they  passed  a  few  days,  but  soon  grew  weary  of 
the  place ;  and  Lord  Chetwynde,  feeling  a  kind 
of  languor,  which  seemed  to  him  like  a  premo- 
nition of  disease,  he  decided  to  go  to  Germany. 
His  first  idea  was  to  go  to  Baden,  although  it  was 
not  the  season ;  but  on  his  arrival  at  Frankfort  he 
was  so  overcome  by  the  fatigue  of  traveling  that 
he  determined  to  remain  for  a  time  in  that  city. 
His  increasing  languor,  however,  had  alarmed 
him,  and  he  had  called  in  the  most  eminent 
physicians  of  the  place,  who,  at  the  time  the  let- 
ter was  written,  were  prescribing  for  him.  The 
writer  said  that  they  did  not  seem  to  think  that 
this  illness  had  any  thing  very  serious  in  it,  and 
simply  recommended  certain  changes  of  diet  and 
various  kinds  of  gentle  exercise,  but  he  added 
that  in  his  opinion  there  was  something  in  it,  and 
that  this  illness  ivas  more,  serious  than  was  tuji- 
posed.  As  for  the  pick  man  himself,  he  was  much 
discouraged.  He  had  grown  tired  of  his  physi- 
cians and  of  Frankfort,  and  wished  to  go  on  to 
Baden,  thinking  that  the  change  might  do  him 
good.  He  seemed  anxious  for  constant  change, 
and  spoke  as  though  he  might  leave  Baden  for 
some  other  German  city,  or  perhaps  go  on  to 
Italy,  to  which  place  his  thoughts,  for  some  rea- 
son or  other,  seemed  always  turning  with  eager 
impatience. 

As  Hilda  read  this  letter,  and  took  in  the 
whole  of  its  dark  and  hidden  meaning,  nil  her 
former  agitation  returned.     Once  more  the  qucs- 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


166 


tion  arose  which  had  before  so  greatly  harassed 
her.  Tlie  disappearance  of  Mrs.  Hart,  and  the 
increasing  dangers  which  had  been  gathering 
around  her  head,  had  for  a  time  talien  up  her 
thougiits,  but  now  her  great,  preoccupying  care 
came  back  witli  fresh  vehemence,  and  resumed 
more  than  its  former  sway.  Mrs.  Hart  was  for- 
gotten as  comjiletely  as  though  she  had  never 
existed.  Guaitier's  possible  infidelity  to  her  sug- 
gested itself  no  more ;  it  was  Lord  Chetwynde 
and  Lord  Chetwynde  only,  his  sickness,  his  peril, 
his  doom,  which  came  to  her  mind.  On  one  side 
;<tood  Love,  pleading  for  his  life ;  on  the  other 
Vengeance,  demanding  its  sacrifice. 

Shall  he  live,  or  shall  he  die  t 

This  was  the  question  which  ever  and  ever 
rang  in  her  soul.  "  iShall  he  live,  or  die  ?  Shall 
he  go  down  to  death,  doomed  by  me,  and  thus 
end  all  my  hope,  or  shall  he  live  to  scorn  me  ?" 
In  his  death  there  was  the  satisfaction  of  venge- 
ance, but  there  was  also  the  death  of  hope.  In 
his  death  there  was  fresh  security  for  herself; 
but  in  his  death  her  own  life  would  lie  dead.  On 
each  side  there  were  motives  most  powerful  over 
a  mind  like  hers,  yet  so  evenly  balanced  that 
she  knew  not  which  way  to  turn,  or  in  which  way 
to  incline.  Death  or  life? — life  or  death? 
Thus  the  question  came. 

And  the  hours  passed  on  ;  and  every  hour,  she 
well  knew,  was  freighted  with  calamity ;  every 
hour  was  dragging  Lord  Chetwynde  on  to  that 
l)oint  at  which  the  power  to  decide  upon  his  fate 
would  be  hers  no  longer. 

Why  hesitate? 

This  was  the  form  which  the  question  took  at 
last,  and  under  which  it  forced  itself  more  and 
more  upon  her.  Why  hesitate?  To  hesitate 
was  of  itself  to  doom  him  to  death.  If  he  was 
to  be  saved,  there  wo-'  no  time  for  delay.  He 
must  be  saved  at  one  '*"  he  was  to  be  saved, 
she  must  act  herself,  P'l  ,  too,  promptly  and 

energetically.     IK  .ild  not  be  performed 

by  merely  writing  .,  for  the  letter  might 

be  delayed,  or  it  mig  .,  oe  miscarried,  or  it  might 
be  neglected  and  disobeyed.  She  could  not  trust 
the  fulfillment  of  a  command  of  mercy  to  Gual- 
tier.  She  herself  could  alone  fulfill  such  a  pur- 
jK)se.     She  herself  must  act  by  herself. 

As  she  thought  of  this  her  decision  was  taken. 
Yes,  she  would  do  it.  She  herself  would  arrest 
his  fate,  for  "i  time  at  least.  Yes — he  should 
live,  and  she  herself  would  fly  to  his  tud,  and 
stand  by  his  side,  and  be  the  one  who  would 
snatch  him  from  his  doom. 

Now,  no  sooner  was  this  decision  made  than 
there  came  over  her  a  strange  thrill  of  joy  and 
exultation.  lie  should  live !  he  should  live ! 
this  was  the  refrain  which  rang  in  her  thoughts. 
He  should  live ;  and  she  would  be  the  life-giver. 
At  last  he  would  be  forced  to  look  upon  her 
with  eyes  of  gratitude  at  least,  if  not  of  affec- 
tion. It  should  no  longer  be  in  his  power  to 
scorn  her,  or  to  turn  away  coldly  and  cruelly 
from  her  proflNBred  hand.  He  should  yet  learn 
to  look  upon  her  as  his  best  friend.  He  should 
learn  to  call  her  by  tender  names ;  and  speak  to 
her  words  of  fondness,  of  endearment,  and  of 
love.  Now,  as  deep  as  her  des])ondency  had 
f)een,  so  high  rose  her  joy  at  this  new  prospect ; 
and  her  hope,  which  rose  out  of  this  resolution, 
was  bright  to  a  degree  which  was  commensurate 
with  the  darkness  of  her  previous  despair.     He 


shall  live ;  and  he  shall  be  mine— these  were  the 
words  upon  which  her  heart  fed  it.self,  which 
carried  to  that  heart  a  wild  and  feverish  joy, 
and  drove  away  those  shaip  pangs  which  she 
had  felt.  And  now  the  love  which  burned  with- 
in her  (liffused  through  all  her  being  those  softer 
qualities  which  are  born  of  love ;  and  the  hate 
and  the  vengeance  upon  which  she  had  of  late 
sustained  her  soul  were  forgotten.  Into  her 
heart  there  came  a  tenderness  all  feminine,  and 
a  thing  unknown  to  her  before  that  fateful  day 
on  which  she  had  first  seen  Lord  Chetwynde ;  a 
tenderness  which  filled  her  with  a  yearning  de- 
sire to  fly  to  the  rescue  of  this  man,  whom  she 
had  but  lately  handed  over  to  the  assassin.  She 
hungered  and  thirsted  to  be  near  him,  to  stand 
by  his  side,  to  see  his  face,  to  touch  his  hand,  to 
hear  his  voice,  to  give  to  him  that  which  should 
save  him  from  the  fate  which  she  herself  had 
dealt  out  to  him  by  the  hands  of  her  own  agent. 
It  was  thus  that  her  love  at  last  triumphed  over 
her  vengeance,  and,  sweeping  onward,  drove 
away  all  other  thoughts  and  feelings. 

Hers  w.is  the  love  of  the  tigress ;  but  even  the 
love  of  th»',  tigress  is  yet  love ;  and  such  love  has 
its  own  profound  depths  of  tenderness,  its  ca- 
pacity of  intense  desire,  its  power  of  complete 
self-abnegation  or  of  self-immolation  —  feelings 
which,  in  the  tigress  kind  of  love,  are  as  deep  as 
in  any  other,  and  perhaps  even  deeper. 

But  from  her  in  that  dire  emergency  the  one 
thing  that  was  required  above  all  else  was  haste. 
1  hat  she  well  knew.  There  was  no  time  for  de- 
lay. There  was  one  at  the  side  of  Lord  Chet- 
wynde whose  heart  knew  neither  pity  nor  re- 
morse, whose  hand  never  faltered  in  dealing  its 
blow,  and  who  watched  every  failing  moment  of 
his  life  with  unshaken  determination.  To  him 
her  cruel  and  bloody  behests  had  been  committed 
in  her  mad  hour  of  vengeance ;  those  behests  he 
was  now  carrying  out  as  much  for  his  own  sake 
as  for  hers ;  accomplishing  the  fulfillment  of  his 
own  purposes  under  the  cloak  of  obedience  to 
her  orders.  He  was  the  destroying  ungel,  and 
his  mission  was  death.  He  could  not  know  of 
the  change  whicli  had  come  over  her ;  nor  could 
he  dream  of  the  possibility  of  a  change.  She 
alone  could  bring  a  reprieve  from  that  death, 
and  stay  his  hand. 

Haste,  then — she  murmured  to  herself— oh, 
haste,  or  i":  will  soon  be  toe  late !  Fly !  Loave 
every  thing  and  fly !  Every  hour  brings  him 
nearer  to  death  until  that  hour  comes  when  you 
may  save  him  from  death.  Haste,  or  it  may  be 
too  late — and  the  mercy  and  the  pity  and  the 
tenderness  of  love  may  be  all  unavailing ! 

It  was  with  the  frantic  haste  which  wos  born 
of  this  new-found  pity  that  Hilda  prepared  for 
her  journey.  Her  preparations  were  not  extens- 
ive. A  little  luggage  sufficed.  She  did  not 
wish  a  maid.  She  had  all  her  life  relied  upon 
herself,  and  now  set  forth  upon  this  fateful 
journey  alone  and  unattended,  with  her  heart 
filled  with  one  feeling  only,  and  only  one  hope. 
It  needed  but  a  short  time  to  complete  her  prep- 
arations, and  to  announce  to  the  astonished  do- 
mestics her  intention  of  going  to  the  Continent. 
Without  noticing  their  amazement,  or  caring  for 
it,  she  ordered  the  carriage  for  the  nearest  sta- 
tion, and  in  a  short  time  after  her  first  decision 
she  was  seated  in  the  cars  and  hurrying  onward 
to  London. 


uniimrilW<i^ii|Mijmi^nniifn<m.-|  "'Vfnpn  vmv  r  jui  \fmn'> 


IG6 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


ArriviiiK  there,  she  mnde  ft  short  stay.  She 
had  some  tilings  to  procure  which  were  to  her  of 
intinitc  iniporiunco.  Leaving  the  hotel,  she  went 
down  Oxford  Street  till  she  cnine  to  a  druggist's 
.shop,  which  she  entered,  and,  going  up  to  the 
clerk,  she  handed  hin»  a  piipcr,  which  looked 
like  a  doctor's  prescription.  The  clerk  took  it, 
and,  after  looking  at  it,  carried  it  to  an  inner  of- 
fice. After  a  time  the  proprietor  ap])eared.  lie 
scanned  Hilda  narrowly,  while  she  returned  his 
glance  with  her  usual  haughtiness.  The  drug- 
gist appeared  satisfied  with  his  inspection. 

"Madame,"  said  he,  politely,  "the  ingre- 
dients cf  this  prescrijition  are  of  snch  a  nature 
that  the  law  requires  mo  to  know  the  name  and 
address  of  the  [lurchaser,  so  as  to  enter  them  on 
the  purchase  hook." 

"  My  address,  "said  Hilda,  quietly,  "  is  Mrs. 
Henderson,  ol  Kuston  Square." 

The  druggist  howed,  and  entered  the  name 
carefully  on  his  hook,  after  which  he  himself 
prepared  the  prescription  and  handed  it  to  Hilda. 

She  asked  the  price,  and,  on  hearing  it,  flung 
down  a  sovereign,  after  which  she  was  on  the 
point  of  leaving  without  waiting  for  the  change, 
when  the  druggist  called  her  hack. 

"Madame,"  said  he,  "you  are  leaving  with- 
out your  change." 

Hilda  started,  and  then  turning  back  she  took 
the  change  and  thanked  him. 

"  I  thought  jou  said  it  was  twenty  shillings,'' 
she  remarked,  qnietly,  seeing  that  the  druggist 
was  looking  at  her  with  a  strange  expression. 

"Oh  no,  madame;  I  said  ten  shillings." 

"Ah!  I  misunderstood  you,"  and  with  these 
words  Hilda  took  her  departure,  carrying  with 
her  the  precious  medicine. 

That  evening  she  left  r.ondon,  and  took  the 
steamer  for  Ostend.  Before  leaving  she  had  sent 
B  telegraphic  message  to  Giialtier  at  Frankfort, 
announcing  the  fact  that  she  was  coming  on,  and 
asking  him,  if  he  left  Frankfort  hefore  her  arriv- 
al, to  leave  a  letter  for  her  at  the  hotel,  letting 
her  know  where  they  might  go.  This  she  did 
for  a  twofold  motive :  first,  to  let  Gualtier  know 
that  she  was  corting  ,  and  secondly,  to  secure  a 
means  of  tracking  them  if  they  went  to  another 
place.  But  the  dispatch  of  this  message  filled 
her  with  fresh  anxiety.  She  feared  first  that  the 
message  might  not  reach  its  destination  in  time  ; 
and  then  that  Gualtier  might  utterly  misunder- 
stand her  motive — a  thing  which,  under  the  cir- 
cnmstances,  he  was  certain  to  do — and,  under 
this  misapprehension,  hurry  up  his  work,  so  as 
to  have  it  completed  by  the  time  of  her  arrival. 
These  thoughts,  with  many  others,  agitated  her 
so  much  that  she  gradually  worked  herself  into 
an  agony  of  fear;  and  the  swiftest  speed  of 
steamboat  or  express  train  seemed  slow  to  the 
desire  of  that  stormy  spirit,  which  would  have 
forced  its  way  onward,  far  beyond  the  speed 
which  human  contrivances  may  create,  to  the 
side  of  the  man  whom  she  longed  to  see  and  to 
save.  The  fever  of  her  fierce  anxiety,  the  ve- 
hemence of  her  desire,  the  intensity  of  her  an- 
guish, all  worked  upon  her  delicate  organization 
with  direful  effect.  Her  brain  became  confused, 
and  thoughts  became  dreams.  For  hours  she 
lost  all  consciousness  of  surrounding  objects. 
Yet  amidst  all  this  confusion  of  a  diseased  and 
overworked  brain,  and  amidst  this  delirium  of 
wild  thought,  there  was  ever  prominent  her  one 


idea — her  one  purpose.  IIow  slie  passed  that 
journey  she  could  not  afkerward  remember,  but 
it  was  at  length  passed,  and,  following  the  guid- 
ance of  that  strong  purpose,  which  kept  its 
jilace  in  her  mind  when  other  things  were  lost, 
she  at  last  stood  in  the  station-house  a'  Frank- 
fort. 

"  Drive  to  the  Hotel  Rothschild,  '  'he  cried  to 
the  cabman  whom  she  had  engaged.  "Quick! 
for  your  life !" 

The  cabman  marked  her  agitation  and  frenzy. 

Ho  whipped  up  his  horses,  the  cab  dashed 
through  the  streets,  and  reached  the  hotel-. 
Hilda  hurried  out  and  went  up  the  steps,  'i'ot- 
teriiig  rather  than  walking,  she  advanced  to  a  man 
who  had  come  to  meet  her.  He  seemed  to  be 
the  proprietor. 

"Lord  Chetwynde!"  she  gasped.  "Is  he 
here  ?"    She  spoke  in  German. 

1'he  proprietor  shook  his  head. 

"  He  left  the  day  before  yesterday." 

Hilda  staggered  back  with  a  low  moan.  She 
did  not  really  think  that  he  could  be  here  yet, 
hut  she  had  hoped  that  he  might  be,  and  the 
disappointment  was  great. 

"  Is  there  a  letter  here,"  she  asked,  in  a  faint 
voice,  "for  Lady  Chetwynde?" 

"I  th'  '(cso.     I'll  see." 

Hi  g  away  he  soon  returned  with  a,  letter 
in  hi.  ..  .id. 

"  Are  you  the  one  to  whom  it  is  addressed'" 
he  asked,  with  deep  respect. 

"  I  am  Lady  Chetwynde,"  said  Hilda,  and  at 
the  same  time  eagerly  snatched  the  letter  from 
his  hand.  On  the  outside  she  at  once  recognized 
the  writing  of  Gualtier.  She  saw  the  address, 
"Lady  Chetwynde."  In  an  instant  she  tore  it 
open,  and  read  the  contents. 

The  letter  contained  only  the  following  words  : 

"Fbankfoht,  Hotki.  Rnnisoiiii.i), 
October  80, 1969. 

"  We  leave  for  Baden  to-day.  Our  business  in 
progressing  very  favorably.  We  go  to  the  Hotel 
Fran(;ai8  at  Baden.  If  you  copie  on  you  must 
follow  us  there.  If  we  go  away  before  your  ar- 
rival I  will  leave  a  note  for  you." 

The  letter  was  as  short  as  a  telegrom,  and  as 
unsatisfactory  to  a  mind  in  such  a  state  as  hers. 
It  had  no  signature,  but  the  handwriting  was 
Gualtier's. 

Hilda's  hand  trembled  so  that  she  could  scarce- 
ly hold  it.  She  read  it  over  and  over  again. 
Then  she  turned  to  the  landlord. 

"  What  time  does  the  next  train  leave  for  Ba- 
den ?''  she  asked. 

"To-morrow  morning  at  .'>  a.m.,  miladi.'' 

"  Is  there  no  train  before  ?" 

"No,  miladi." 

"  Is  there  no  steamer  ?" 

"  No,  miladi— not  before  to-morrow  morning. 
The  five  o'clock  train  is  the  first  and  the  quickest 
way  to  go  to  Baden. " 

"  I  am  in  a  great  hurry,"  said  Hilda,  faintly. 
"  I  must  be  called  in  time  for  the  five  o'clock 
train." 

"You  shall  be,  miladi." 

"Send  a  maid — and  let  me  have  my  room 
now — as  soon  as  possible — for  I  am  worn  out." 

As  she  said  this  she  tottered,  and  would  have 
fallen,  but  the  landlord  supported  her,  and  called 
for  the  maids.     They  hurried  fonvard,  and  Hilda 


THE  CUYl'TOGRAM. 


1(57 


was  pnrriod  up  to  lier  room  nnd  tenderly  put  to 
l)ed.  The  landlord  was  an  honest,  tender-heart- 
ed German.  Lord  Chetwynde  had  i)een  a  guest 
of  sufficient  distinction  to  be  well  rememl)ered  l)y 
a  landlord,  and  his  ill  health  had  made  him  more 
conspicuous.  The  arrival  of  this  devoted  wife, 
who  herself  seemed  as  ill  as  her  husband,  but 
who  yet,  in  spite  of  weakness,  was  hastening  to 
him  with  such  a  consuming  desire  to  get  to  him, 
affected  most  profoundly  this  honest  landlord,  and 
all  others  in  the  hotel.  That  evening,  then, 
Hilda's  faith  and  love  and  constancy  formed  the 
chief  theme  of  conversation ;  the  visitors  of  the 
hotel  heard  the  sad  story  from  the  landlord,  and 
deep  was  the  pity,  and  profound  the  sympathy, 
which  were  expressed  by  all.  To  the  ordinary 
])athos  of  this  atfecting  example  of  conjugal  love 
some  additional  power  was  lent  by  the  extreme 
iMjauty,  the  excessive  prostration  and  grief,  and, 
id)ovc  all,  the  illustrious  rank  of  this  devoted  wo- 
man. 

Hilda  was  put  to  bed,  but  there  was  no  sleep 
for  her.  The  fever  of  her  anxiety,  the  shock  of 
her  disappointment,  the  tumult  of  her  hoiKis  and 
tears,  all  made  themselves  felt  in  her  overworked 
brain.  She  did  not  take  the  five  o'clock  train  on 
the  following  day.  The  maid  came  to  call  her, 
hut  found  her  in  a  high  fever,  eager  to  start,  but 
quite  unabln  to  move.  Before  noon  she  was  de- 
lirious. 

In  that  delirium  her  thoughts  \vandered  over 
those  scenes  which  for  the  past  few  months  had 
been  uppermost  in  her  mind.  Now  she  was  shut 
up  in  her  chamber  at  Chetwynde  Castle  reading 
the  Indian  papers ;  she  heard  the  roll  of  carriage 
wheels;  she  prepared  to  meet  the  new-comer 
face  to  face.  She  followed  him  to  the  morning- 
room,  and  there  listened  to  his  fierce  maledic- 
tions. On  the  occasion  itself  she  had  been  dumb 
before  him,  but  in  her  delirium  she  had  words 
of  remonstrance.  These  words  were  expressed 
in  every  varying  shade  of  entreaty,  deprecation, 
conciliation,  and  prayer.  Again  she  watched  a 
stern,  forbidding  face  over  the  dinner-table,  and 
sought  to  Appease  by  kind  words  the  just  wrath 
of  the  man  she  loved.  Again  she  held  out  her 
hand,  only  to  have  her  humble  advances  repelled 
in  coldest  scorn.  Again  she  saw  him  leave  her 
forever  without  a  word  of  farewell — without  even 
a  notice  of  his  departure,  nnd  she  remained  to 
give  herself  up  to  vengeance. 

That  delirium  carried  her  through  many  past 
events.  Gualtier  again  stood  up  before  her  in 
rebellion,  proud,  defiant,  merciless,  asserting  him- 
self, and  enforcing  her  submission  to  his  will. 
Again  there  came  into  her  room,  suddenly,  and 
like  a  spectre,  the  awful  presence  of  Mrs.  Hart, 
with  her  white  face,  her  stern  looks,  her  sharj)  in- 
quiries, and  her  ominous  words.  Again  she  pur- 
sued this  woman  to  her  o.vn  room,  in  the  dark, 
<ind  ran  her  hands  over  the  bed,  and  found  that 
bed  empty. 

But  Lord  Chetwynde  was  the  central  object 
of  her  delirious  fancies.  It  was  to  him  tliat 
her  thoughts  reverted  from  brief  wanderings 
over  reminiscences  of  Gualtier  and  Mrs.  Hart. 
Whatever  thoughts  she  might  have  about  these, 
those  thoughts  would  always  at  last  revert  to 
him.  And  with  him  it  was  not  so  much  the  past 
that  suggested  itself  to  her  diseased  Imagination 
OS  the  future.  That  future  was  sufficiently  dark 
and  terrible  to  be  portrayed  in  fearful  colors  by 


her  incoherent  ravings.  There  were  whisper- 
ed words — words  of  frightful  meaning,  words 
which  expressed  those  thoughts  which  in  her 
sober  senses  she  would  have  died  rather  than  re- 
veal, Had  any  one  been  standing  by  her  bed- 
side who  knew  English,  he  might  have  learned 
from  her  words  a  story  of  fearful  import — a  tale 
which  would  have  chilled  his  blood,  and  which 
would  have  shown  him  how  far  different  this 
sick  woman  was  from  the  fond,  self-sacrificing 
wife,  who  had  excited  the  sympathy  of  all  in  the 
hotel.  But  there  was  none  who  could  imder- 
sta!id  her.  The  doctor  knew  no  language  beside 
his  own,  except  a  little  French ;  the  maids  knew 
nothing  but  German.  And  so  it  was  that  while 
Hilda  unconsciously  revealed  the  whole  of  those 
frightful  secrets  which  she  carried  shut  up  within 
her  breast,  that  revelation  was  not  intelligible 
to  any  of  those  who  were  in  contact  with  her. 
Well  was  it  for  her  at  that  time  that  she  had 
chosen  to  come  away  without  her  maid  ;  for  had 
that  maid  been  with  her  then  she  would  have 
learned  enough  of  her  mistress  to  send  her  flying 
back  to  England  in  horror,  and  to  publish  abroad 
the  awful  intelligence. 

Thus  n  week  passed — a  week  of  delirium,  of 
ravings,  of  incoherent  speeches,  unintelligible  to 
all  those  by  whom  she  was  surrounded.  At  length 
her  strong  constitution  triumphed  over  the  as- 
saults of  disease.  The  fever  was  allayed,  and 
sense  returned ;  and  with  returning  sense  there 
came  the  full  consciousness  of  her  position.  The 
one  purpose  of  her  life  rose  again  within  her 
mind,  and  even  while  she  was  too  weak  to  move 
she  was  eager  to  be  up  and  away. 

"  How  long  will  it  be,"  she  asked  of  the  doc- 
tor, "  before  I  can  go  on  my  journey  ?" 

"If  every  thing  is  favorable,  miladi,"  answer- 
ed the  doctor,  "  as  I  hope  it  will  be,  you  may  be 
able  to  go  in  about  a  week.  It  will  be  a  risk, 
but  you  are  so  excited  that  I  would  rather  have 
you  go  than  stay. " 

"A  week!  A  week!"  exclaimed  Hilda,  de- 
spairingly. "  I  can  not  wait  so  long  as  that. 
No.     1  will  go  before  then — or  else  I  will  die." 

"If  you  go  before  a  week,"  said  the  doctor, 
warningly,  and  with  evident  anxiety,  "you  will 
risk  your  life." 

"  Very  well  then,  I  will  risk  my  life,"  said 
Hilda.  "What  is  life  worth  now?"  she  mur- 
mured, with  a  moan  of  anguish.  "  I  must  and 
will  go  on,  if  I  die  for  it— and  in  three  days." 

The  doctor  made  no  reply.  He  saw  her  des- 
peration, and  perceived  that  any  remonstrance 
would  be  worse  than  useless.  To  keep  such  a 
resolute  and  determined  spirit  chained  here  in  a 
sick-chamber  would  be  impossible.  Khe  would 
chafe  at  the  confinement  so  fiercely  that  a  re- 
newal of  the  fever  would  bo  inevitable.  She 
would  have  to  be  allowed  her  own  way.  Most 
deeply  did  ho  commiserate  this  devoted  wife,  and 
much  did  he  wonder  how  it  had  happened  that 
her  husband  had  gone  off  from  her  thus,  at  a  time 
when  ho  himself  was  threatened  with  illness. 
And  now,  as  before,  those  kindly  German  hearts 
in  tlie  hotel,  on  learning  this  new  outburst  of  con- 
jugal love,  felt  a  sympathy  which  was  beyond  all 
expression.  To  none  of  them  had  there  ever 
before  been  known  any  thing  approaching  to  so 
])iteou3  a  case  as  this. 

The  days  passed.  Hilda  was  avaricious  about 
every  new   sign  of  increasing   strength.     Her 


-"^(PP^IflPWI^I^PWUlll  l|W  W^li  IIJUIHJ. 


168 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


Ntrong  (letorniiimtion,  her  intenHo  dcHiro,  and  her 
powerful  will,  ut  litst  triumphed  over  bodily  pain 
and  weakness.  It  was  as  she  said,  and  on  the 
third  day  she  managed  to  drag  herself  from  her 
bed  and  prepare  for  a  fresh  journey.  In  |>repa- 
ratiun  for  this,  however,  she  was  compelleu  to 
have  a  maid  to  accompany  her,  and  she  selected 
one  of  those  who  hud  been  her  attendants,  an 
honest,  simple-hearted,  atlectionate  German  girl 
— Gretchen  by  name,  one  who  was  just  suited  to 
her  in  her  present  situation. 

She  made  the  journey  without  any  misfortune. 
On  reaching  Baden  she  had  to  be  lifted  into  the 
cab.  Driving  to  the  Hotel  Francois,  she  reached 
it  in  a  state  of  extreme  prostration,  and  had  to 
be  carried  to  her  rooms.  She  asked  for  a  letter. 
There  was  one  for  her.  Gualtier  had  not  been 
neglectful,  but  had  left  a  message.  It  was  \ery 
much  like  the  last. 

"  Badkn,  HfiTEi,  Franoaib,  November  2, 1889. 
"We  leave  for  Munich  to-day,  and  will  stop 
at  the  Hotel  des  Etrangers.     Business  progress- 
ing most  favorably.      If  we  go  av  ay  from  Mu- 
nich I  will  leave  a  note  for  you." 

The  letter  was  dated  November  2,  but  it  was 
now  the  10th  of  that  month,  and  Hilda  was  far 
behind  time.  She  had  nerved  heiself  up  to  this 
effort,  and  the  hope  of  finding  the  object  of  her 
search  at  Baden  had  sustained  her.  But  her  new- 
found strength  was  now  utterly  exhausted,  by  the 
fatigue  of  travel,  and  the  new  disappointment 
which  she  had  experienced  created  discourage- 
ment and  despondency.  This  told  still  more  upon 
her  strength,  and  she  was  compelled  to  wait  here 
for  two  days,  chafing  and  fretting  against  her 
weakness. 

Nothing  could  exceed  the  faithful  attention  of 
Gretchen.  She  had  heard  at  Frankfort,  from  the 
gossip  of  the  servants,  the  stoiy  of  her  mistress, 
and  all  her  German  sentiment  was  roused  in  be- 
half of  one  so  sorrowful  and  so  beautiful.  Her 
natural  kindness  of  heart  also  led  to  the  utmost 
devotion  to  Hilda,  and,  so  far  as  careful  and  in- 
cessant attention  could  accomplish  any  thing,  all 
was  done  that  was  possible.  By  the  13th  of  No- 
vember Hilda  was  ready  to  start  once  more,  and 
on  that  morning  she  left  for  Munich. 

This  journey  was  more  fatiguing  than  the  last. 
In  her  weak  state  she  was  almost  overcome. 
Twice  she  fainted  away  in  the  cors,  and  all  of 
Gretchen's  anxious  care  was  required  to  bring  her 
to  her  destination.  The  German  maid  implored 
her  with  tears  to  get  out  at  some  of  the  towns  on 
the  way.  But  Hilda  resolutely  refused.  She 
hoped  to  find  rest  at  Munich,  and  to  stop  short 
of  that  place  seemed  to  her  to  endanger  her  pros- 
pect of  success.  Again,  as  before,  the  strong  soul 
triumphed  over  the  infirmity  of  the  body,  and  the 
place  of  her  destination  was  at  last  attained. 

She  reached  it  more  dead  than  alive.  Gretcheii 
lifted  her  into  a  cab.  She  was  taken  to  the  Hotel 
des  Etrangers.  At  the  very  first  moment  of  lipr 
entrance  into  the  hall  she  had  asked  a  breathless 
question  of  the  servant  who  appeared : 

"  Is  Lord  Chetwynde  here  ?" 

"  Lord  Chetwynde  ?    No.     He  has  gone." 

"  Gone !"  said  Hilda,  in  a  voice  which  was  like 
a  groan  of  despair.     "Gone!     When?" 

"  Nearly  a  week  ago,"  said  the  servant. 

At  this  Hilda's  strength  again  left  her  utterly, 
and  she  fell  back  almost  senseless.     She  was  car- 


ried to  her  room.  Then  she  rallied  by  a  mighty 
effort,  and  sent  Gretcheii  to  see  if  there  was  a 
letter  for  her.  In  a  short  time  the  maid  retip- 
peared,  bringing  another  of  those  welcome  yet 
tantalizing  notes,  which  always  seemed  ready  to 
mock  her,  and  to  lure  her  on  to  fresh  disappoint- 
ment. Yet  her  impatience  to  read  its  contents 
had  in  no  way  diminished,  and  it  was  with  the 
same  impetuous  fever  of  curiosity  as  before  that 
she  tore  open  the  envelope  and  devoured  the  con- 
tents. This  note  was  much  like  the  others,  but 
somewhat  more  ominous. 
It  read  as  follows  : 

"  Munich.  IIAtki,  i>kb  Etranokra, 
November  9, 1869. 
"  We  leave  for  Lausanne  to-day.  We  intend 
to  stop  at  the  Hotel  Gibbon.  It  is  not  probable 
that  any  further  journey  will  be  made.  Business 
most  favorable,  and  prospects  are  that  everv  thing 
will  soon  be  brought  to  a  successful  issuc.^' 


CHAPTER  XLIX. 

THE   ANGUISH   OF  THE   HEAHT. 

As  Hilda  read  these  ominous  words  a  chill  like 
that  of  death  seemed  to  strike  to  her  inmost  soul. 
Her  disappointment  on  her  arrival  here  had  al- 
ready been  bitter  enough.  She  had  looked  iijiou 
Munich  as  the  place  where  she  would  surely  find 
the  end  of  her  jouniey,  and  obtain  the  reward ' 
of  her  labors.  But  now  the  object  of  her  search 
was  once  more  removed,  and  a  new  journey  more 
fatiguing  than  the  others  was  set  before  her. 
Could  she  bear  it? — she  who  even  now  felt  the 
old  weakness,  and  something  even  worse,  coming 
back  inesistibly  upon  her.  Could  she,  indeed, 
bear  another  journey?  This  question  she  put  to 
herself  half  hopelessly ;  but  almost  immediately 
her  resolute  soul  asserted  itself,  and  proudly  an- 
swered it.  Bear  such  a  journey  ?  Ay,  this 
journey  she  could  bear,  and  not  only  this,  but 
many  more.  Even  though  her  old  weakPiSss  was 
coming  back  over  her  frail  form,  still  she  rose 
superior  to  that  weakness,  and  persisted  in  her 
determination  to  go  on,  and  still  on,  without  giv- 
ing up  her  purpose,  till  she  reached  ]x)rd  Chet- 
wynde, eveti  though  it  should  only  be  at  the  mo- 
ment of  her  arrival  to  drop  dead  at  his  feet. 

There  was  more  now  to  stimulate  her  than  the 
determinati(>n  of  a  resolute  rnd  invincible  will. 
The  words  of  that  last  note  had  a  dark  and  om- 
inous meaning,  which  affected  her  more  strongly 
by  far  than  any  of  the  others.  The  me»sages 
which  they  bore  had  not  been  of  so  fearful  an 
import  as  this. 

The  first  said  that  the  "  business"  was  pro- 
gressing very  favorably. 

The  second,  that  it  was  progressing  most  fa- 
vorably. 

This  last  one  told  her  that  the  business  tvould 
soon  be  browjht  to  a  successful  issue. 

Well  she  knew  the  meaning  of  these  words. 
In  these  ditt'erent  messages  she  saw  so  many  suc- 
cessive stages  of  the  terrific  work  which  was  go- 
ing on,  and  to  avert  which  she  had  endured  so 
much,  at  the  cost  of  such  suffering  to  herself. 
She  saw  the  form  of  Lord  Chetwynde  failing 
more  and  more  every  day,  and  still,  while  he 
struggled  against  the  approach  of  insidious  dis- 
ease, yielding,  in  spite  of  himself,  to  its  resistless 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


169 


progress.  She  saw  him  going  from  phice  to 
place,  summoning  the  physicians  of  each  town 
where  ho  stopped,  and  giving  up  both  town  and 
physicians  in  despair.  She  saw,  also,  how  all 
the  time  there  stood  by  his  side  one  who  was 
tilled  with  one  dark  purpose,  in  the  accomplish- 
ment of  which  he  was  perseveringly  cruel  and 
untiringly  patient — one  who  watched  the  growing 
weakness  of  his  victim  with  cold-blooded  inter- 
est, noting  every  decrease  of  strength,  and  every 
sign  which  might  give  token  of  the  end — one, 
too,  who  thought  that  she  was  hastening  after 
him  to  join  in  his  work,  and  was  only  delaying 
in  order  to  join  him  when  all  was  over,  so  as  to 
give  him  her  congratulations,  and  bestow  upon 
him  the  reward  which  he  hud  made  her  promise 
that  she  would  grant. 

Thoughts  like  these  filled  her  with  mildness. 
Wretched  and  almost  hopeless,  prostrated  by  her 
weakness,  yet  consumed  by  an  ardent  desire  to 
rush  onward  and  save  the  dying  man  from  the 
grasp  of  the  destroyer,  her  soul  became  a  prey  to 
a  thousand  contending  emotions,  and  endured 
the  extreme  of  the  anguish  of  suspense.  Such  a 
struggle  as  this  proved  too  much  for  her.  One 
night  was  enough  to  prostrate  her  once  more  to 
that  stage  of  utter  weakness  which  made  all  hope 
of  travel  impossible.  In  that  state  of  prostra- 
tion her  mind  still  continued  active,  and  the 
thoughts  that  never  ceased  to  come  were  those 
which  prevented  her  from  rallying  readily.  For 
the  one  idea  that  was  ever  present  was  this,  that 
while  she  was  thus  helpless,  her  work  was  still 
</oing  on — that  work  which  she  had  ordered  and 
directed.  That  emissary  whom  she  had  sent  out 
was  now,  as  she  well  knew,  fulfilling  her  mandate 
but  too  zealously.  The  power  was  now  all  in  his 
own  hands.  And  she  herself — what  could  she 
do?  He  had  already  defied  her  authority — 
would  he  now  give  up  his  purpose,  even  if  she 
wished  ?  She  might  have  telegraphed  from  Lon- 
don a  command  to  him  to  stop  all  further  pro- 
ceedings till  she  came ;  but,  even  if  she  had  done 
so,  was  it  at  all  probable  that  he,  after  what  had 
happened,  would  have  oteyed  ?  She  had  not 
done  so,  because  she  did  not  feel  in  a  position  to 
issue  comnuinds  ony  longer  in  her  old  style. 
The  servant  had  assumed  the  air  and  manner  of 
H  master,  and  the  message  which  slie  had  sent 
had  been  non-committal.  She  had  relied  upon 
the  prospect  of  her  own  speedy  arrival  upon  the 
scene,  r.nd  upon  her  own  power  of  confronting 
him,  and  reducing  him  to  obedience  in  case  of 
his  refusal  to  fall  in  with  her  wishes. 

But  now  it  had  fallen  out  far  differently  from 
what  she  had  expected,  and  the  collapse  of  her 
own  strength  had  ruined  all.  Now  every  day  and 
every  hour  was  taking  hope  away  from  her,  and 
giving  it  to  that  man  who,  from  being  her  tool, 
hatl  risen  to  the  assertion  of  mastership  over  her. 
Now  every  moment  was  dragging  away  from  her 
the  man  whom  she  sought  so  eagerly — dragging 
him  away  from  her  love  to  the  darkness  of  that 
place  to  which  her  love  and  her  longing  might 
never  penetrate. 

Now,  also,  there  arose  within  her  the  agonies 
of  remorse.  Never  before  had  she  understood 
the  fearful  meaning  of  this  word.  Such  a  feeling 
had  never  stirred  her  heart  when  she  handed  over 
to  the  betrayer  her  life-long  friend,  her  almost 
sister,  the  one  who  so  loved  her,  the  trustful, 
the  innocent,  the  affectionate  Zillah ;   such  a 


feeling  had  not  interfered  with  her  purpose  when 
Gualtier  returned  to  toll  of  his  success,  and  to 
mingle  with  his  story  the  recital  of  Zillah's  love 
and  longing  after  her.  But  now  it  was  different. 
Now  she  had  handed  over  to  that  same  betrayer 
one  who  had  become  dearer  to  her  than  life  itself 
— one,  too,  who  had  grown  dearer  still  ever  since 
that  moment  when  she  had  first  resolved  to  save 
him.  If  she  had  never  arrived  at  such  a  resolu- 
tion— if  she  had  borne  with  tlie  struggles  of  her 
heart,  and  the  tortures  of  her  suspense — if  she 
had  fought  out  the  battle  in  solitude  and  by  her- 
self, alone  at  Chetwynde,  her  sufferings  would 
have  been  great,  it  is  true,  but  tl'ov  would  never 
have  arisen  to  the  proportions  w'.ich  they  now  as- 
sumed. They  would  never  have  reduced  her  to 
this  anguish  of  soul  which,  in  its  reaction  upon 
the  body,  thus  deprived  her  of  all  strength  and 
hope.  That  moment  when  she  had  decided 
against  vengeance,  and  in  favor  of  pity,  had 
borno  for  her  a  fearful  fruit.  It  was  the  point  at 
which  all  her  love  was  let  loose  suddenly  from 
that  repression  which  she  had  striven  to  maintain 
over  it,  and  rose  up  to  gigantic  proportions,  fill- 
ing all  her  thoughts,  anil  overshadowing  all  other 
feelings.  That  love  now  pervaded  all  her  being, 
occupied  all  her  thoughts,  and  absorbed  all  her 
spirit.  Once  it  was  love ;  now  it  had  grown  to 
something  more,  it  had  become  a  frenzy ;  and  the 
more  she  yielded  to  its  overmastering  power,  the 
more  did  that  power  enchain  her. 

Tormented  and  tortured  by  such  feelings  as 
these,  her  weary,  overworn  frame  sunk  once  more, 
and  the  sufferings  of  Frankfort  were  renewed  at 
Munich.  On  the  next  day  after  her  arrival  she 
was  unable  to  leave.  For  day  after  day  she  lay 
prostrate,  and  all  her  impatient  eagerness  to  go 
onward,  and  all  her  resolution,  profited  nothing 
when  the  poor  frail  flesh  was  so  weak.  Yet,  in 
spite  of  all  this,  her  soul  was  strong ;  and  that 
soul,  by  its  indomitable  p^irpose,  roused  up  once 
more  the  shattered  forces  of  the  body.  A  week 
passed  away,  but  at  the  end  of  that  week  she 
arose  to  stagger  forward. 

Her  journey  to  Lausanne  was  made  somehow — 
she  knew  not  how— partly  by  the  help  of  Gretch- 
en,  who  watched  over  her  incessantly  with  inex- 
haustible devotion— partly  through  the  strength 
of  her  own  forceful  will,  which  kept  before  he. 
the  great  end  which  was  to  crown  so  much  en- 
deavor. She  was  a  shattered  invalid  on  this 
journey.  She  felt  that  naother  such  a  journey 
would  be  impossible.  She  hoped  that  this  one 
would  end  her  severe  trials.  And  so,  amidst  hope 
and  fear,  bar  soul  sustained  her,  and  she  went  on. 
Such  a  journey  as  this  to  one  less  exhausted 
would  have  been  one  memorable  on  account  of 
its  physical  and  mental  anguish,  but  to  Hilda,  in 
that  extreme  of  suffering,  it  was  not  memorable 
at  all.  It  was  less  than  a  dream.  It  was  a 
blank.  How  it  passed  she  knew  not.  After- 
ward she  only  coidd  remember  that  in  some  way 
it  did  pass. 

On  the  twenty-second  day  of  November  she 
reached  Lausanne.  Gretchen  liftetl  her  out  of 
the  coach,  and  supported  her  as  she  tottered  into 
the  Hotel  Gibbon.  A  man  was  standing  in  the 
doorway.  At  first  he  did  not  notice  the  two  wo- 
men, but  something  in  Hilda's  appearance  struck 
him,  and  he  looked  earnestly  at  her. 

An  exclamation  burst  from  him. 

"  My  God !"  he  groaned. 


170 


THK  CRYPTOfWlAM. 


U1MJA8   ARRIVAL   AT  THE   HOTEL  OIBUON. 


For  n  moment  ho  stood  staring  at  them,  and 
then  advanced  with  a  rapid  puce. 

It  was  Gualtier. 

Hilda  recognized  him,  but  said  nothing.  She 
coidd  not  speak  a  word.  She  wished  to  ask  for 
something,  but  dreaded  to  ask  that  (juestion,  for 
slie  feared  the  reply. 

In  that  interval  of  fear  and  hesitation  Gualtier 
had  leisure  to  see,  in  one  l)rief  glance,  all  the 
change  that  had  come  over  her  who  had  once 
been  so  strong,  so  calm,  so  self-reliant,  so  unmoved 
by  the  passions,  the  feelings,  and  the  weaknesses 
of  ordinaiy  humanity.     He  saw  and  shuddered. 

Thin  and  pale  and  wan,  she  now  stood  before 
him,  tottering  feebly  with  unsteady  step,  and 
staying  herself  on  the  arm  of  her  maid.  Her 
cheeks,  which,  when  he  last  saw  them,  were  full 
and  rounded  with  the  outlines  of  youth  and 
Ijeolth,  were  now  hollow  and  sunken.  Around 
her  eyes  were  those  dark  clouded  marks  which 
arc  the  sure  signs  of  weakness  and  disease.  Her 
hands,  as  they  grasped  the  arms  of  the  maid, 
were  thin  and  white  and  emaciated.  Her  lips 
were  bloodless.  It  was  the  face  of  Hilda,  in- 
ileed,  but  Hilda  in  sorrow,  in  suffering,  and  in 
grief — such  a  face  as  he  had  never  imagined. 
But  there  were  some  things  in  that  face  which  be- 


longed to  the  Hilda  of  old,  and  had  not  changed. 
The  eyes  still  flashed  dark  and  i)ier('ing ;  they 
at  least  had  not  failed ;  and  still  their  penetra- 
ting gaze  rested  upon  him  with  no  diminution 
in  their  power.  Still  the  rich  masses  of  ebon 
hair  wreathed  themselves  in  voluminous  folds, 
and  from  out  the  luxuriant  black  masses  of  that 
hair  the  white  face  looked  forth  with  its  pallor 
rendered  more  awful  from  the  contrast.  Yet 
now  that  white  face  was  a  face  of  agony,  and  the 
eyes  which,  in  their  mute  entreaty,  were  turned 
toward  him,  were  fixed  and  staring.  As  he  came 
ap  to  her  she  grasped  his  arm  ;  her  lips  moved ; 
but  for  a  time  no  audible  sound  escaped.  At 
length  she  spoke,  but  it  was  in  a  whisper : 

'■  /s  he  alive  f" 

And  that  was  all  that  she  said.  She  stood 
there  panting,  and  gasping  for  breath,  awaiting 
his  reply  with  a  certain  awful  suspense. 

"  Yes,  my  lady,"  said  Gualtier,  in  a  kind  of  be- 
wilderment, as  though  he  had  not  yet  got  ovei 
the  shock  of  such  an  apparition.  "  He  is  alive 
yet." 

"  God  be  thonked  !"  moaned  Hilda,  in  a  low 
voice.  "  I  have  arrived  in  time — at  last.  He 
must  be  saved — and  he  shall  be  saved.     Come." 

She  spoke  this  last  word  to  Gualtier.     By  her 


X^ 


TIIK  CHYPTOGKAM. 


171 


words,  nn  well  ns  by  her  fare  nnd  manner,  he  saw 
that  Nome  ^I'tMit  change  had  como  over  her,  hut 
why  it  wa«,  ho  knew  not  yet.  lie  phiinly  jier- 
ceived,  however,  that  she  had  turned  from  her 
purpose,  and  now  no  longer  desired  the  death  of 
the  man  whom  she  had  commiHNioned  liim  to 
de.stroy.  In  tluit  moment  of  hurried  thought  he 
wondered  much  but,  from  hix  knowledge  of  the 
recent  past,  he  made  a  conjecture  which  wan  not 
far  from  the  truth. 

"Come,"  said  Uildn.  "  I  have  something  to 
say  to  you.     I  winh  to  see  you  alone.     Come." 

And  he  followed  her  into  the  hotel. 


CHAPTER  L. 


BLACK   BILL. 


On  the  day  after  his  meeting  with  Lord  Chet- 
wynde  Ohed  had  intended  to  start  for  Naples. 
Lord  ('hetwynde  had  not  chosen  to  tell  <)t)ed  his 
real  name ;  but  this  maintenance  of  his  incogni- 
to was  not  at  all  owing  to  any  love  of  mystery, 
or  any  desire  to  keep  a  secret.  He  chose  to  he 
"Windham"  because  Obed  thought  him  so,  and 
ho  had  no  reason  for  being  otherwise  with  him. 
lie  thought,  also,  that  to  tell  his  real  name  iniglit 
involve  a  troublesome  e.xplanation,  which  was  not 
desirable,  especially  since  tiiero  was  no  need  for 
it.  Had  that  explanation  been  made,  had  the 
true  name  been  made  known  at  this  interview,  a 
fior)d  of  light  would  have  poured  down  upon  this 
dark  matter,  and  Obed  would  have  had  at  last 
the  key  to  every  thing.  But  this  revelation  was 
not  made,  nnd  Windiiam  took  his  departure 
from  his  friend. 

On  the  following  morning,  while  Obed  was 
dressing,  a  note  was  brought  to  his  room.  It  was 
from  the  police,  and  requested  a  visit  from  him, 
ns  matters  of  importance  had  been  found  out  with 
reference  to  the  case  which  he  had  intrusted  to 
tiiem.  At  tiiis  unexpected  message  Obed's  start 
for  Naples  was  postponed,  and  ho  hurried  oft"  as 
rapidly  as  possil)le  to  the  office. 

On  arriving  there  he  soon  learned  the  cause  of 
the  note.  An  event  had  occurred  which  was  in 
the  highest  degree  unexpected,  and  had  not  arisen 
out  of  the  ordinary  inquiries  of  the  detectives  nt 
nil.  It  seems  that  on  the  evening  of  the  previous 
day  a  man  had  come  voluntarily  to  lodge  inform- 
ation against  tiiis  same  Guultior  for  the  purpose 
of  having  a  search  made  after  him.  He  was  one 
of  the  worst  characters  in  London,  well  known 
to  the  police,  and  recognized  by  them,  and  by  his 
own  ruftian  companions,  under  the  name  of 
"Black  Bill."  In  order  that  Obed  might  him- 
self iiear  what  he  had  to  say,  they  had  detained 
the  informer,  and  sent  for  him. 

Obed  was  soon  brought  face  to  face  with  this 
new  actor  in  the  great  tragedy  of  Zillah's  life. 
He  was  a  sliort,  stout,  thick-.set  man,  with  bull 
neck,  broad  shoulders,  deep  chest,  low  brow,  flat 
nose,  square  chin,  and  small  black  eyes,  in  which 
there  lay  a  mingled  expression  of  ferocity  nnd 
cunning.  His  very  swarthy  complexion,  heavy 
bhick  beard,  and  thick,  matted,  coal-black  hair, 
together  with  his  black  eyes,  were  sufldciently 
marked  to  make  him  worthy  of  the  name  of 
"  Hlnck  Bill."  Altogether,  he  looked  like  n  per- 
fect type  of  perfect  ruffianism;  and  Obed  invol- 
untarily felt  a  cold  shudder  pass  over  him  as  he 


thought  of  Zillnh  falling  into  the  hands  of  any 
set  of  villains  of  which  this  man  was  one. 

On  entering  the  room  lllack  hill  was  informed 
that  Olied  was  largely  interested  in  the  a*''.iir 
which  he  had  made  known,  and  was  biti'ljii  to 
tell  his  story  once  more.  Thereup(-u  Biat  .•<  Bill 
took  a  long  and  very  comprehensive  stare  at 
Obed  from  liead  to  foot,  after  which  he  went  on 
to  narrate  his  story. 

Ho  had  been  engaged  in  the  month  of  June, 
he  said,  by  a  man  who  gave  his  mime  as  Hich- 
nrds.  He  understood  that  he  was  to  take  ])art 
in  an  enteiprise  which  was  illegal,  but  attended 
with  no  risk  whatever.  It  was  simply  to  assist 
in  sinking  a  vessel  at  sen.  iUnck  Bill  remarked, 
with  much  naivete,  that  he  always  was  scrujailous 
in  obeying  the  laws ;  but  just  nt  that  time  he  wns 
out  of  tin,  nnd  yielded  to  the  temptation.  He 
thought  it  wns  a  case  where  the  vessel  was  to  Ik; 
sunk  for  the  sake  of  the  insurance.  Such  things 
were  very  common,  and  friends  of  his  had  nssistetl 
before  in  simihir  enterprises.  The  price  offered 
for  his  sen'ices  was  not  large — only  fifty  pounds — 
and  this  also  made  him  think  it  was  oidy  some 
common  cose. 

He  found  that  three  other  men  had  also  been 
engaged.  They  were  ordered  to  go  to  Marseilles, 
and  wait  till  they  were  wanted.  Money  wns 
given  them  for  the  journey,  and  n  certain  house 
wns  mentioned  as  the  place  where  they  shoidd 
stay. 

They  did  not  have  long  to  wait.  In  a  short 
time  the  man  who  had  employed  thorn  called  on 
them,  and  took  them  down  to  the  harbor,  where 
they  found  a  very  handsome  yacht.  In  about  an 
hour  afterward  he  returned,  necompnnied  this 
time  by  n  young  nnd  benutiful  Indy.  Black  Bill 
nnd  nil  the  men  were  very  much  struck  by  her 
nppearance.  They  saw  very  well  that  she  be- 
longed to  the  upper  clnsses.  They  snw  nlso  that 
their  employer  treated  her  with  the  deejjest  re- 
spect, and  seemed  almost  like  her  servant.  They 
heard  her  once  call  him  "Mr.  (lualtier"  nnd 
knew  by  this  that  the  name  "Hichards"  wns  an 
nssumed  one.  They  nil  wondered  grently  at  her 
nppenrnnce,  nnd  could  not  understand  what  wns 
to  be  her  part  in  the  adventure.  Judging  from 
what  they  heard  of  the  few  words  she  addressed 
to  this  Gualtier,  they  saw  that  she  was  expecting 
to  sail  to  Naples,  and  was  very  eager  to  nrrive 
there. 

At  last  the  second  night  came.  Gunltier  sum- 
moned Black  Bill  nt  midnight,  nnd  they  both 
went  into  the  hold,  where  they  bored  holes.  The 
other  men  had  meanwhile  got  the  boat  in  readi- 
ness, and  had  put  some  provisions  and  water  in 
her.  At  last  the  holes  were  bored,  and  the  vessel 
began  to  fill  rapidly.  Black  Bill  was  ordered 
into  the  boat,  Gualtier  saying  that  he  was  going 
to  fetch  the  young  lady.  The  men  all  thought 
then  thnt  she  had  been  brought  on  board  merely 
to  be  forced  into  taking  part  in  the  .sinking  of  the 
vessel.  None  of  them  understood  the  idea  of  the 
thing  nt  all. 

They  waited  for  a  time,  according  to  Black 
Bill.  The  night  was  intensely  dark,  and  they 
could  henr  nothing,  when  suddenly  Gualtier  came 
to  the  boat  and  got  in. 

"Where's  the  girl?"  snid  Black  Bill. 

"She  won't  come,"  said  Gualtier,  who  at  the 
same  time  unloosed  the  boat.  "  She  won't  come," 
he  repeated.     "  Give  way,  lads." 


i>vmw<  m  nii^r^mnanmnimiwiip^l** 


■  .|l,I^.K"P<llll 


■i^'.fKW  Wi«H "  I Jl  •  U««l|il|,kJ1 


172 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


The  "  lads"  refused,  and  a  great  outcry  arose. 
They  swore  that  they  would  not  leave  the  vessel 
without  the  girl,  and  that  if  he  did  not  go  back 
instantly  and  get  her,  they  would  pitch  him  over- 
board and  save  her  themselves.  Black  Bill  told 
him  they  thought  it  was  only  an  insurance  busi- 
ness, and  nothing  like  this. 

Gualtier  remained  quite  calm  during  this  out- 
cry. As  soon  as  he  could  make  himself  heard 
he  told  them,  in  a  cool  voice,  that  he  was  armed 
with  a  revolver,  and  would  shoot  them  all  down 
if  they  did  not  obey  him.  He  had  hired  them 
for  this,  he  said,  and  they  were  in  for  it.  Jf 
they  obeyed  liim,  he  would  pay  them  wl  en  they 
got  ashore;  if  not,  he  would  blow  their  brains  out. 
Black  Bill  said  that  at  this  threat  he  drew  his 
own  pistol  and  snapped  it  at  Gualtier.  It  would 
not  go  off.  Gualtier  then  laughed,  and  said  that 
pistols  which  had  a  needle  run  down  the  nipple 
did  not  generally  explode — by  which  Black  Bill 
saw  that  his  pistol  had  been  tampered  with. 

There  was  a  long  altercation,  but  the  end  of  it 
was  that  Gualtier  gave  them  .i  certain  time  to  de- 
cide, after  which  he  swore  that  he  would  shoot 
them  down.  He  was  armed,  he  was  doternj- 
ined  ;  they  were  unarmed,  and  at  his  mercy ;  and 
the  end  of  it  was,  they  yie'ded  to  him  and  rowed 
away.  One  thing  which  materially  influenced  ^ 
them  was,  that  they  had  drifted  away  from  the 
schooner,  and  she  had  been  lost  in  the  deep  dark- 
ness of  the  night.  Besides,  before  their  alterca- 
tion was  over,  they  all  felt  sure  that  the  vessel  had 
sunk.  iSo  they  rowed  on  sullenly  all  that  night 
and  all  the  next  day,  with  only  short  intervals  of 
rest,  guarded  all  the  time  by  Gualtier,  who,  pis- 
tol ir  hand,  kept  them  to  their  work. 

They  reached  the  coast  at  a  point  not  far  from 
Leghorn.  It  was  a  wild  spot,  with  wooded 
shores.  Here  Gualtier  stepped  out,  paid  them, 
«nd  ordered  them  to  go  to  Leghorn.     As  for 

mself,  he  swore  they  sTiould  never  see  him 
again.  They  took  the  money,  and  rowed  oft'  fcr 
a  little  -listance  along  the  shore,  when  Black  Bill 
made  them  put  him  ashore.  They  did  so,  and 
rowed  on.  He  plunged  int^  the  woods,  and 
walked  back  till  he  got  <m  Gualtier's  trail,  which 
he  followed  up.  Black  Bill  here  remarked,  with 
a  mixt  "re  of  triumph  and  mock  contrition,  thut 
an  acciuent  in  his  early  life  had  sent  liim  to  Aus- 
tralia, in  which  country  he  had  learned  how  to 
notice  the  track  of  animals  or  of  man  in  any 
place,  however  wild.  Here  Gualtier  had  been 
careless,  and  his  track  was  plain.  Black  Bill 
thus  followed  him  from  place  to  place,  and  after 
Gualtier  reached  the  nearest  railway  station  was 
easily  able  to  keep  him  in  sight. 

In  this  way  }<n  had  kept  him  in  sight  through 
North  Italy,  over  the  Alps,  through  Germany, 
and,  finally,  to  London,  where  he  followed"  him 
to  the  door  of  his  lodgings.  Here  he  had  made 
inquiries,  and  had  learned  that  Gualtier  was  liv- 
ing there  under  the  name  of  Mr.  Brown ;  that 
he  had  only  been  there  a  few  weeks,  but  seemed 
inclined  to  stay  permanently,  as  he  had  brought 
there  his  clothes,  some  furniture,  and  oil  his 
papers,  together  with  pictures  and  other  valua- 
bles. Black  Bill  then  devoted  himself  to  the  task 
of  watching  him,  which  he  kept  up  for  some  time, 
till  one  day  Gi'altier  left  by  riiil  for  the  west,  and 
never  returiicd.  Black  iMll  had  watched  ever 
since,  but  had  seen  nothing  of  him,  llo  t  lought 
he  must  have  gone  to  Amsrica. 


Here  Black  Bill  paused  for  a  while,  and  Obcd 
asked  him  one  or  two  questions. 

"What  is  the  reason,"  he  asked,  "that  you 
did  not  give  information  to  the  police  at  first,  in- 
stead  'f  waiting  till  now  y" 

"A  (piestion  like  that  there,"  said  Black  Bill, 
"is  easy  enough  to  answer.  You  see  I  wanted 
for  to  play  •  hown  little  game.  I  wanted  fur 
to  find  out  who  the  gal  was.  If  so  be  as  I'd 
found  out  that,  I'd  have  had  somethin'  to  work 
on.  That's  fust  an'  foremost.  An'  next,  you 
understand,  I  was  anxious  to  git  a  hold  of  him, 
so  as  to  be  able  to  pay  oft'  that  oncommon  black 
score  as  I  had  agin  him.  Arter  humbuggin'  me, 
hocusin'  my  pistol,  an'  ihreat'nin'  murder  to 
me,  an'  makin'  me  work  wuss  than  a  galley- 
slave  in  that  thar  boat,  I  felt  petiklar  anxious  to 
pay  him  oft"  in  the  same  coin.  That's  the  reason 
why  I  sot  up  a  watch  on  him  on  my  own  ac- 
count, instead  of  telling  the  beaks." 

"Do  you  know,"  asked  Obed  again,  "what 
has  become  of  the  others  that  were  witli  you  in 
the  boat  ?" 

"Never  have  laid  eyes  on  'em  since  that  bless- 
ed arternoon  when  1  stepped  ashore  to  follow 
Gualtier.  P'r'aps  tl  'y've  besn  nabbed — p'r'apg 
they're  san'in'  their  time  out  in  the  galleys — 
))'r'aps  they've  jined  the  /talian  aiiny — p'r'aps 
they've  got  back  here  again.  Wot's  become  of 
them  his  Honor  here  knows  better'n  me." 

After  this  Black  Bill  went  on,  and  told  all  the 
rest  that  he  had  to  say.  He  declared  that  he 
had  watched  Gualtier's  lodgings  for  more  than 
three  months,  expecting  that  he  would  return. 
Av  last  he  disguised  himself  and  went  there  to 
make  inquiries.  The  keeper  of  the  house  told 
him  that  nothing  had  been  heard  from  "Mr. 
Brown'"  since  he  left,  and  he  had  packed  away 
all  his  things  in  hope  of  his  return.  But  a  Liv- 
erjjool  i)aper  luid  recently  been  sent  to  him  with 
a  marked  paragrai)h,  giving  an  account  of  the 
recovery  of  the  body  of  a  man  who  had  been 
drowned,  and  who  in  all  resj)ects  seemed  to  re- 
semble his  late  lodger.  Why  it  had  been  sent 
to  him  he  did  nut  know;  but  he  thought  that 
perhaps  some  pai)er  had  been  found  in  the  pock- 
ets of  the  deceased,  and  the  autliorities  had  sent 
this  journal  to  the  address,  thinking  that  the  no- 
tice might  thus  reach  his  friends. 

After  this  Black  Bill  began  to  lose  hope 
success.  He  did  not  believe  that  Gualtier  hau 
perished,  but  that  it  was  a  common  trick  to  give 
rise  to  a  belief  in  the  mind  of  his  lodging-house 
keeper  that  he  had  met  with  his  death.  In  this 
belief  he  waited  for  a  short  time  to  see  if  any 
fresh  intelligence  turned  up;  l)ut  at  length,  as 
tiualtier  made  no  sign,  and  Black  Bill's  own  re- 
sources were  exhausted,  he  had  concliuled  that 
it  would  be  best  to  make  known  the  vilxole  cir- 
cumstance to  the  police. 

Such  was  the  substance  of  his  narrative.  Tt 
was  interrupted  by  frequent  questions ;  but  Black 
Bill  told  a  coherent  tale,  and  did  hot  contradict 
himself.  There  was  not  the  slightest  doubt  in 
the  minds  of  his  hearers  that  he  was  one  of  the 
greatest  scoundrels  that  ever  lived,  but  at  the 
same  time  there  was  not  the  slightest  doubt  that 
on  this  occasio"  he  had  not  taken  part  willingly 
again.st  the  life  of  the  young  girl.  He  and  his 
associates,  it  was  felt,  had  been  tricked  and  over- 
reached by  the  superior  cimniug  of  Gualtier, 
They  saw  also,  by  Black  Bill's  a\;count,  that  this 


WT'^^tfimwimttfift     ■ 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM, 


178 


Gualtier  was  bold  and  courageous  to  a  high  de- 
gree, with  a  cool  calculation  and  a  daring  that 
were  not  common  among  men.  lie  had  drawn 
these  men  into  the  commission  of  what  they  ex- 
pected would  be  some  slight  offense,  and  then 
i'orccd  them  to  be  'lis  unwilling  allies  in  a  foul 
murder.  He  had  paid  them  a  small  price  for 
the  commission  of  a  great  crime.  He  had  bul- 
lied them,  threatened  them,  and  made  them  his 
slaves  by  his  own  clever  management  and  the 
force  of  his  own  nature,  and  that,  too,  although 
these  very  mer.  were,  all  of  them,  blood-stained 
rufflnns,  the  most  reckless  among  the  dregs  of 
society.  F^om  Black  Bill's  story  Obed  gained  a 
new  vi*"  .  of  Gualtier. 

Af.er  Black  Bill  had  been  dismissed,  the  lodg- 
ing-! OHse  keeper,  who  had  been  sent  for,  made 
his  a  ipearnnce.  His  account  was  quite  in  ac- 
cor('di.  ^e  with  what  had  been  said.  This  man, 
whom  hi;  called  Brown,  had  taken  lodgings  with 
him  in  May  last,  and  had  staid  a  few  weeks. 
He  then  had  been  absent  for  a  fortnight  or  so. 
On  his  return  he  passed  a  few  days  in  the  house, 
and  then  left,  since  which  time  he  had  not  been 
heard  of  The  Liverpool  paper  which  had  been 
sent  him  gave  the  only  hint  at  the  possible  cause 
of  his  absence.  In  reply  to  an  inquiry  from 
Obed,  the  landlord  stated  that  Mr.  Brown's  ef- 
fects seemed  to  be  very  valuable.  There  was  a 
line  piano,  a  dozen  handsome  oil-paintings,  a 
private  desk,  an  iron  box,  a  jewel  box,  and  a 
trunk,  which,  from  its  weight,  was  filled  with 
something  perhaps  of  value.  On  the  whole,  he 
could  not  think  that  such  things  would  be  left  by 
any  one  without  some  effort  to  regain  possession 
of  them.  If  they  were  sold  at  a  sacrifice,  they 
would  bring  a  very  large  sum. 

The  lodging-house  keeper  was  then  allowed  to 
take  ''is  departure,  after  which  Obed  and  the 
magistrate  discussed  for  some  time  the  new  ap- 
pearance which  had  been  given  to  this  affair. 
Their  conclusions  were  similar,  in  most  respects. 

It  seemed  to  them,  first,  tiiat  this  Gualtier, 
whose  names  were  so  numerous,  had  planned  his 
crime  with  a  far-reaching  ingenuity  not  often  to 
be  met  with,  and  that  after  the  accom))lishment 
of  his  crime  he  was  still  as  ingenious  in  his  ef- 
forts after  perfect  concealmeiH.  He  had  baffled 
the  police  of  France,  of  Italy,  and  of  Kugland 
thus  far.  He  had  also  baffled  complei  _  that  one 
enemy  who  liad  so  long  a  time  followed  on  his 
track.  His  last  act  in  leaving  his  lodgings  »'as 
well  done — though  putting  the  notice  in  the  Liv- 
erpool paper,  and  sending  it  to  the  landlord, 
seemed  more  clumsy  than  his  usual  ])roceeding8. 
It  was  readily  concluded  that  the  notice  in  that 
paper  was  -uily  a  ruse,  in  order  to  secure  more 
perfect  concealment,  or,  perhaps,  elude  pursuit 
more  effectually. 

It  seemed  also  most  likely,  under  the  circum- 
stance!!, that  he  had  actually  gone  as  far  as  Liv- 
erpool, and  from  that  port  to  America.  If  that 
were  the  case  it  would  be  difficult,  if  not  impos- 
sible, ever  to  get  on  his  track  or  discover  him. 
The  only  chance  appeared  to  ba  in  the  probabil- 
ity that  ho  would  send,  in  some  way  or  other,  for 
those  things  which  he  had  left  in  the  lodging- 
house.  Judging  by  the  enumeration  which  the 
landlord  hud  given,  they  were  too  valuable  to  be 
and  in  mt  <>,  cases  the  owner  wo'ild  make 
sofno  effort  to  r-~cover  tliem.  The  magistrate 
tfaid  that  ho  would  direct  the  landlord  to  keep  the 


things  carefully,  and,  if  any  inquiry  ever  camo 
after  them,  to  give  immediate  information  to  the 
police.  This  was  evidently  the  only  way  of  ever 
catching  Gualtier. 

The  motive  for  this  crime  appeared  quite  plain 
to  these  inquii-era.  Judging  by  the  facts,  itseem- 
ed  as  though  uualtier  and  Hilda  had  been  lovers, 
and  had  planned  this  so  as  to  secure  all  the  prop- 
erty of  the  younger  sister.  To  Obed  the  motive 
was  still  more  plain,  though  he  did  not  tell  what 
he  knew: — namely,  the  important  fact  that  Hilda 
was  not  the  sister  at  all  of  her  victim,  and  that 
her  own  property  was  small  in  comj,«rison  with 
that  of  the  one  at  whose  life  she  aimed.  He 
thought  that  to  tell  this  even  to  the  police  would 
be  a  violation  of  sacred  confidence.  After  the 
commission  of  the  crime  it  seemed  plain  that 
these  criminals  had  taken  to  flight  together,  most 
probably  to  America.  This  they  could  easily  do, 
as  their  funds  were  all  portable. 

A  careful  look-out  at  the  lodging-house  was 
evidently  the  only  means  by  which  the  track  of 
the  fugitives  could  be  discovered.  Even  this 
would  take  a  long  time,  but  it  was  the  only  thing 
that  could  be  done. 

After  this  a  careful  examination  was  made  of 
the  things  which  Gualtier  had  left  behind  at  the 
lodging-house.  The  pictures  were  found  to  be 
very  valuable  ;  the  piano,  also,  was  new — one  of 
Collard's — and  estimated  to  be  worth  one  hun- 
dred and  fifty  pounds.  The  jewel  box  was  found 
to  contain  articles  of  great  value,  some  diamond 
rings,  and  tur(]uoise  and  pearl.  Many  of  the 
things  looked  like  keepsakes,  some  of  them  hav- 
ing inscriptions,  such  as  "To  M. — from  G.," 
' '  To  M.  —from  L. , "  "  From  Mother. "  Theso 
seemed  like  things  which  no  living  man  could 
willingly  give  up.  How  could  it  be  known  that 
Gualtier  had  indeed  given  up  such  sacred  ])0S8e8- 
sions  as  these  ? 

On  opening  the  trunks,  one  was  found  to  con- 
tain books,  chiefly  French  novels,  and  the  other 
clothes.  None  of  these  gave  any  fresh  clew  to 
the  home  or  the  friends  of  the  fugitive. 

Last  of  all  was  the  writing-desk.  This  was 
opened  with  intense  curiosity.  It  was  hoped  that 
here  something  might  be  discovered. 

It  was  well  filled  with  papers.  But  a  short 
examination  served  to  show  that,  in  the  first 
])lace,  the  papers  were  evidently  considered  very 
valuable  by  the  owner ;  and,  in  the  second  place, 
that  they  were  of  no  earthly  value  to  any  one 
else.  They  were,  in  short,  three  different  manu- 
script novels,  whose  soiled  and  fitded  appearance 
seemed  to  speak  of  fretjuent  otterings  to  ditt'erent 
])ub!ishers,  and  as  fre(iueut  refusals.  There  they 
lay,  still  cherished  by  the  author,  inclosed  in  his 
desk,  lying  there,  to  bo  claimed  ])erluips  at  some 
future  time.  There  were,  in  addition  to  these, 
a  number  of  receij)ted  bills,  and  some  season  tick- 
ets for  railways  and  concerts — and  that  was  all. 

Nothing,  therefore,  was  discovered  from  this 
examination.  Yet  the  renult  gave  hojie.  It 
seemed  as  if  no  man  would  leave  thinirs  like  these 
— this  piano,  these  pictures,  these  koepsakes — 
and  never  seek  to  get  them  again.  Those  very 
manuscript  novels,  rejected  as  they  nad  been, 
were  still  things  which  the  author  would  not  will- 
ingly give  up.  The  chances,  therefore,  were  very 
great  that  at  some  time,  in  some  way,  some  ap- 
plication would  1)0  made  for  this  property.  And 
on  this  the  magistrate  relied  cunfidcutly. 


^uwyiT,iiPTW*iM  1  iniui' 


174 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


Obed  spent  another  day  in  London,  and  had 
another  interview  witli  the  niugistnite.  He 
tbuiid,  however,  that  nothing  more  could  be  done 
by  him,  or  by  any  one  else,  at  present,  and  so  he 
returned  to  Naples  via  Marseilles,  lie  called  on 
the  prefect  of  police  at  the  latter  city  to  acquaint 
him  with  the  latest  intelligence  of  tliis  affair; 
lieard  that  notliing  more  liad  been  discovered 
about  Mathilde,  and  then  went  on  his  way,  ar- 
riving in  due  time  at  liis  destination.  lie  told 
his  sister  the  residt  of  his  journey,  but  to  Zilluh 
he  told  nothing  at  all  about  it.  Having  done  all 
liiat  man  could  do,  Obed  now  settled  iiimself 
down  once  more  in  Nnjdes,  beguiling  liis  time 
l)etween  the  excitement  of  excursions  witii  his 
friends,  and  the  calm  of  domestic  life  wiili  his 
family.  Naples,  on  the  whole,  seemed  to  him 
tlie  jileasantest  spot  to  stay  in  tliat  he  had  seen 
for  a  long  time,  and  he  enjoyed  his  life  there  so 
much  that  he  was  in  r'>  hurry  to  leave  it. 


CHAPTER  LI. 

A   STARTLING  PROPOSAL. 

OnED  and  his  family  thus  remained  in  Naples, 
and  Zillali  at  hist  had  an  occupation.  The  new 
duties  which  she  had  undertaken  gave  her  just 
enougii  of  employment  to  till  the  day  and  occupy 
lier  thoughts.  It  was  a  double  blessing.  In  the 
iirst  i)luce  it  gave  her  a  feeling  of  independence  ; 
and  again,  and  especially,  it  occupied  her 
thoughts,  and  thus  prevented  her  mind  from 
jireyiug  upon  itself.  Then  she  was  able  to  gain 
alleviiiiiou  for  the  troubles  that  had  so  long  op- 
j)ressed  her.  She  felt  most  profoundly  the  change 
from  the  feeling  of  jioverty  and  dependence  to 
one  of  independence,  when  she  was  actually 
"getting  her  own  living."  She  knew  that  Iier 
independence  was  owing  to  the  delicate  generos- 
ity of  Obed  Chute,  and  that  under  any  other  cir- 
cumstances she  would  probably  have  liad  no  ref- 
uge from  starvation  ;  but  her  gratitude  to  her 
friends  did  not  lesson  at  all  her  own  self-com- 
l)lacency.  There  was  a  childish  delight  in  Zillah 
over  her  new  position,  which  was  due,  perhaps,  to 
the  fact  that  she  had  always  looked  upon  herself 
as  hopelessly  and  incurably  didl ;  but  now  l.ie 
discovery  tliat  she  could  actually  (ill  the  position 
of  nuisic-teacher  brought  tier  a  strange  triumpii, 
which  brightened  many  a  dark  hour. 

Zillah  already  had  understood  and  appreciated 
the  delicate  feeling  and  high-toned  generosity  of 
Obed  Chute  and  his  sister.  Notliing  could  in- 
crease the  deep  admiration  which  she  felt  for 
these  simjile,  u]night,  honest  souls,  whose  pure 
alfection  for  her  had  proved  such  a  blessing.  Jf 
there  had  been  nothing  else,  her  very  gratitude 
to  them  would  have  been  a  stimulus  such  as  the 
ordinary  governess  never  has.  Under  such  a 
stimulus  the  last  vestige  of  Zillah's  old  willfulness 
died  out.  She  was  now  a  woman,  tried  in  the 
crucible  of  sorrow,  and  in  that  fiery  trial  the 
dross  had  been  removed,  and  only  the  ]»ure  gold 
remained.  The  wayward,  iin|)etuaus  girl  had 
reached  her  last  and  fullest  development,  and 
she  now  stood  forth  in  adversity  and  affliction, 
right  noble  in  her  character — an  earnest  woman, 
devoted,  tender,  enthusiastic,  generous. 

The  fondness  and  admiration  of  her  friends  in- 
crea     '  every  day.     The  little  children,  whose 


musical  education  she  had  now  begun,  had  al- 
ready learned  to  love  her ;  and  wlieu  she  was 
transformed  from  a  friend  to  a  teacher  they  loved 
her  none  the  less.  Zillah's  capacity  for  leaching 
was  so  remarkable  that  it  surprised  herself,  and 
she  began  to  think  that  she  had  not  been  under- 
stood in  the  old  days.  Hut  then,  in  the  old  days, 
she  was  a  petted  and  spoiled  child,  and  would 
never  try  to  work  until  the  last  year  of  her  life 
with  the  Earl,  i»  "ler  he  had  extorted  from  her  a 
promise  to  do  ditferently. 

Obed  Chute  saw  her  success  n  her  new  position 
with  undi.sguised  satisfaction.  15ut  now  that  she 
had  become  a  governess  he  was  not  at  all  in- 
clined to  relax  his  exertions  in  her  behalf.  She 
was  of  too  nuich  importance,  he  said,  to  waste 
her  life  and  injiue  her  health  in  constant  drudg- 
ery, and  so  he  determined  that  she  should  not 
suffer  for  want  of  recreation.  In  Naples  there 
need  never  be  any  lack  of  that.  The  city  itself, 
with  its  noisy,  laughing,  jovial  population,  seems 
to  the  English  eye  as  though  it  was  keeping  one 
perpetual  holiday.  The  Strada  Toledo  looks  to 
the  sober  northerner  as  though  a  constant  carni- 
val were  going  on.  Naples  has  itself  to  otler  to 
the  visitor,  with  its  never-ending  gayety  and  its 
many-sided  life — its  brilliant  cafe's,  its  lively  the- 
atres, its  gay  j)antomimes,  its  buffooneries,  its 
macaroni,  its  lazaroni,  and  its  innumeratde  fes- 
tivities. Naples  has  also  a  cluster  of  attractions 
all  around  it,  which  keep  their  freshness  longer 
than  tho.se  of  any  other  city.  Among  these  Obed 
Chute  continued  to  take  Zillah.  To  him  it  was 
the  best  ha]>piness  that  he  could  desire  when  he 
had  succeeded  in  making  the  time  pass  pleasant- 
ly for  her.  To  see  her  face  flush  u])  with  that  in- 
nocent girlish  enthusiasm,  and  to  hear  her  merry 
laugh,  which  was  still  childlike  in  its  freshness 
and  abandon,  was  something  so  pleasant  that  he 
would  chuckle  over  it  to  himself  all  the  evening 
afterward. 

So,  as  l)efore,  they  dr  .  ^  about  the  environs  or 
sailed  over  the  bay.  Very  little  did  Obed  Chute 
know  about  that  historic  past  which  lived  and 
breathed  amidst  all  these  scenes  through  which 
he  wandered.  No  student  of  history  was  he. 
To  him  the  cave  of  Polyiihemus  brought  no  rec- 
ollections ;  the  isle  of  C'apri  was  a  sim])le  isle 
of  the  sea,  and  nothing  more;  Misenum  could 
not  give  to  his  imi<gination  the  vanished  Roman 
navies ;  Pu/.zuoli  could  not  show  the  traces  of 
Saint  Paul ;  and  there  was  nothing  which  could 
make  known  to  him  the  mighty  footprints  of  the 
heroes  of  the  past,  from  the  time  of  the  men  of 
Osca,  and  Cnma;,  and  the  builders  of  I'atstum's 
Titan  temples,  down  thro\igh  all  the  periods  of 
Roman  luxury,  and  through  all  gradations  of 
men  from  C'icero  to  Nero,  and  down  farther  to 
the  last,  and  not  the  least  of  all,  Helisarius. 
The  past  was  shut  out,  but  it  did  not  interfere 
with  his  simple-hearted  enjoyment.  The  present 
was  sullicieut  for  him.  He  had  no  conception  of 
art ;  and  the  proudest  cathedrals  of  Naples,  or  the 
noblest  sculptures  of  her  museums,  or  the  most 
radiant  pictures,  never  awakened  any  emotion 
within  him.  Art  was  dumb  to  him  ;  but  then 
there  renuiined  something  greater  than  art,  and 
that  was  luiture.  Nature  showed  him  here  her 
rarest  and  divinest  beauty  ;  and  if  in  the  |)resenco 
of  such  beauty  as  that — beauty  which  glowed  in 
immortal  lineaments  wherever  he  turned  his  eyes 
— if  before  this  he  slighted  the  lesser  beauties  of 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


176 


'ZILLAHS   CAPACITY   FOU  TEACHING    SURI'lUSHD    lIKKSIiLF. 


art,  lie  might  be  sneered  at  by  the  mere  dilettante, 
but  the  emotions  of  his  own  soul  were  none  the 
less  true  and  noble. 

One  day  they  had  arranged  for  a  sail  to  Capri. 
Miss  Chute  could  not  go,  and  Zillah  went  with 
Obed  Chute  alone.  She  had  frequently  done  so 
before.  It  was  a  glorious  day.  Most  days  in 
iS'aples  are  glorious.  The  Neapolitan  boatmen 
sang  songs  all  the  way — songs  older,  perhaps,  than 
the  time  of  Massaniello — songs  wliich  may  have 
come  down  from  Norman,  or  even  from  Homan 
(lavs.  There  was  one  lively  air  which  amused 
Ziilali— 

"  How  happy  Is  tho  flshor'i  "'fe, 
Eccomi  E('(-()la, 
The  nt-hor  niid  IiIh  faithful  wife, 
Eccola !" 

It  was  a  lively,  ringing  refrain,  and  tho  words 
ad  in  them  that  sentiment  of  domestic  life  which 
is  not  usually  found  in  Continental  songs.  The 
sea  glittered  around  them.  The  boat  danced 
lightly  over  the  waves.  The  gleaming  atmosphere 
showed  all  the  scenery  with  startling  distmct- 
ness.  (Where  is  there  an  atmosphere  like  that 
of  Naples?)  The  sky  was  of  an  intense  blue, 
and  the  deep  azure  of  iho  sea  rivaled  tho  color 
of  the  sky  that  bent  above  it.     Tho  breeze  that 


s\ve])t  over  the  sea  brought  on  its  wings  life  and 
health  and  Joy.  All  around  there  Hashed  before 
them  the  white  sails  of  countless  boats  that  sped 
in  every  direction  over  the  surface  of  the  waters. 

They  landed  in  Capri,  and  walked  about  the 
island.  They  visited  the  cave,  an<l  strolled  along 
the  shore.  At  length  they  sat  down  on  a  rock, 
and  looked  over  the  waters  toward  the  city.  Be- 
fore them  spread  out  the  sea,  bounded  by  the 
white  gleaming  outline  of  Naples,  \yhich  e.xtend- 
ed  far  along  the  shorj;  on  the  left  was  Ischia; 
and  on  the  right  Vesuvius  towered  on  liigh,  with 
its  smoke  cloud  hovering  over  it,  and  streaming 
far  along  through  the  air.  Never  iiefore  had  the 
Bay  of  Naples  seemed  so  lovely.  Zillah  lost  her- 
self in  her  deep  admiration.  Obed  Chute  also 
sat  in  i)rofound  silence.  Usually  he  talked; 
now,  however,  he  said  nothing,  /illah  thought 
that  he,  like  herself,  was  lost  in  the  beauty  of 
this  matchless  scene. 

At  length  the  long  silence  was  broken  by  Obed 
Chute. 

"  My  child,"  said  he,  "for  the  last  few  weeks 
I  have  been  thinking  much  of  you.  You  have 
wound  yourself  around  my  heart,  i  want  to  say 
something  to  you  now  which  will  sur|)rise  you, 
])erhaps — and,  indeed,  1  do  not  know  how  you  will 


^^f^flfffglffilfif^lf^^immi.f.'iv'm  I  m-'OKMrnwrnKt^^ 


176 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


take  it.  But  in  whatever  way  you  take  it,  do  not 
l)e  afraid  to  tell  me  exactly  how  you  feel.  What- 
ever you  may  say,  I  insist  on  being  your  friend. 
You  once  called  me  your  '  best  friend.'  I  will 
never  do  any  thing  to  lose  that  title. " 

Zillah  looked  up  in  wonder.  She  was  bewil- 
dered. Iler  brain  whirled,  and  all  presence  of 
mind  left  her.  She  susj)ected  what  was  coming, 
but  it  seemed  too  extraordinary,  and  she  could 
scarcely  believe  it.  She  looked  at  him  thus  be- 
wildered and  confused,  and  Obed  went  calmly  on. 

"My  child,"  said  he,  "you  are  so  noble  and 
so  tender  that  it  is  not  surprising  that  you  have 
fixed  yourself  fast  in  my  old  heart.  You  are  very 
dear  and  very  precious  to  me.  I  do  not  know 
how  I  could  bear  to  have  you  leave  me.  I  hope 
to  have  you  near  me  while  I  live,  in  some  way  or 
other.  How  shall  it  be  ?  Will  you  be  a  daugh- 
ter to  me — or  will  you  be  a  wife  ?" 

Obed  (^hute  paused,  lie  did  not  look  at  her  as 
he  said  this.  He  did  not  see  the  crimson  flush 
that  shot  like  lightning  over  that  white  and  beau- 
tiful face.     He  looked  away  over  the  sea. 

But  a  deep  groan  from  Zillah  aroused  him. 

He  started  and  turned. 

Her  face  was  upturned  to  his  with  an  expres- 
sion of  agony.  She  clasped  his  arms  with  a  con- 
vulsive grasp,  and  seemed  to  gasp  for  breath. 

"Oh  God!  "she  cried,  "Is  this  so?  I  must 
tell  you  this  much,  then — I  will  divulge  my  secret. 
Oh,  my  friend — I  ara  married !" 


CHAPTER  LIT.  '^  ' 

A   BBTTKR   UNDERSTANDING. 

For  a  long  time  not  a  word  was  spoken.  Obed 
8«t  thunder-struck  by  this  intelligence.  He  look- 
ed at  her  in  wonder,  as  her  fair  girlish  face  was 
turned  toward  him,  not  knowing  how  to  receive 
this  unparalleled  communication. 

"  Oh,  my  friend,"  said  Zillah,  "have  I  ever 
in  any  way  shown  that  I  could  have  expected 
this  ?  Yes,  I  am  married — and  it  is  about  my 
marriage  that  the  secret  of  my  life  has  grown. 
Forgive  me  if  I  can  not  tell  you  more. " 

"  Forgive  you  ?  What  are  you  saying,  my 
child  ?"  said  Obed  Chute,  tenderly.  "  I  am  the 
one  who  must  be  forgiven.  I  have  disturbed  and 
troubled  you,  when  1  was  only  seeking  to  secure 
your  happiness." 

By  this  time  Obed  had  recovered  from  his  sur- 
prise, and  began  to  contemplate  the  present  state 
of  affairs  in  their  new  aspect.  It  certainly  was 
strange  that  this  young  girl  should  be  a  married 
woman,  but  so  it  was ;  and  what  then  ?  "  What 
then  ?"  was  the  question  which  suggested  itself 
to  Zillah  also.  Would  it  make  any  difference — 
or  rather  would  it  not  make  all  the  difference  in 
the  world  ?  Hitherto  she  had  felt  unembarrass- 
ed in  his  society,  but  hereafter  all  would  be  dif- 
ferent. Never  again  could  she  feel  the  same  de- 
gree of  ease  as  before  in  his  presence.  Would 
he  not  hereafter  seem  to  her  and  to  himself  as  a 
rejected  lover? 

But  these  thoughts  soon  were  diverted  into 
another  channel  by  Obed  Chute  himself. 

"  So  you  are  married  ?"  said  he,  solemnly. 

"Yes,"  faltered  Zillah. 

"  AVell,  my  child,"  said  Obed,  with  that  same 
tenderness  in  his  voice,  which  was  now  so  fa- 


miliar to  her,  "  whether  it  is  for  good  or  evil  I  do 
not  seek  to  know.  I  only  say  this,  that  if  there 
is  tny  thing  which  I  could  do  to  secure  your  hap- 
piness, you  could  not  fmd  any  one  who  would  do 
more  for  you  than  Obed  Ciiute." 

"Oh,  my  friend!" 

"Just  now,"  said  Obed  Chute,  "  I  asked  you 
to  be  my  wife.  Do  not  avoid  the  subject,  my 
child.  I  ara  not  ashamed  of  having  made  that 
prop  si.  It  was  for  your  happiness,  as  1 
thoug'  ^3  well  as  for  my  own.  I  loved  you ; 
and  I  thought  that,  perhaps,  if  you  were  my  wife, 
I  could  make  you  happier  than  you  now  are. 
But  since  it  is  not  to  be,  what  then  ?  Why,  I  love 
you  none  the  less  ;  and  if  you  can  not  be  my  wife, 
you  shall  be  my  daughter.  Do  not  look  u])on  me 
as  a  passionate  youth.  My  love  is  deep  and  ten- 
dor  and  self-sacriflcing.  1  think,  perhaps,  it  is 
much  more  the  love  of  a  father  than  that  of  a 
husband,  and  that  it  is  just  as  well  that  there  are 
obstacles  in  the  way  of  my  proposal.  Do  not  look 
so  sad,  my  little  child,"  continued  Obed  Chute, 
with  increased  tenderness.  "Why  should  you  ? 
I  am  your  friend,  and  you  must  love  me  as  much 
as  you  can  —  like  a  daughter.  Will  you  be  a 
daughter  to  me  ?  Will  you  trust  mo,  my  child, 
and  brighten  my  life  as  you  have  been  doing  ?" 

He  held  out  his  hand. 

Zillah  took  it,  and  burst  into  tears.  A  thou- 
sand contending  emotions  were  in  her  heart  and 
agitating  her. 

"  Oh,  my  friend  and  benefactor!"  said  she ; 
"  how  can  I  help  giving  you  my  love  and  my  grat- 
itude? You  have  been  to  me  a  father  and  a 
friend—" 

"  Say  no  more,"  said  Obed,  interrupting  her. 
"  It  is  enough.  We  will  forget  that  this  conver- 
sation has  taken  place.  And  as  for  myself,  I 
will  cherish  your  secret,  my  child.  It  is  as  safe 
with  me  as  it  would  be  with  yourself  only." 

Now  as  he  spoke,  with  his  frank,  generous  face 
turned  toward  her,  and  the  glow  of  affection  in 
his  eyes,  Zillah  felt  as  though  it  would  be  better 
to  give  him  her  full  confidence  and  tell  him  all. 
In  telling  him  that  she  was  married  she  had  made 
a  beginning.  Why  should  she  not  tell  every 
thing,  and  make  known  th*?  secret  of  her  life  ? 
It  would  be  safe  with  him.  It  would  be  a  fair 
return  for  his  generous  affection.  Above  all,  it 
would  be  frank  and  honest.  He  would  then 
know  all  about  her,  and  there  would  be  nothing 
more  to  conceal. 

Thus  she  thought;  hut  still  she  shrank  from 
such  R  confession  and  such  a  confidence.  It 
would  involve  a  disclosure  of  all  the  most  solemn 
and  sacred  memories  of  her  life.  It  would  do 
violenci,  to  her  most  delicate  instincts.  Could 
she  do  this  ?  It  was  impossible.  Not  unless 
Obed  Ch  te  insisted  on  knowing  every  thing 
could  she  venture  to  lay  bare  her  past  life,  and 
make  known  the  secrets  of  her  heart.  And  she 
well  knew  that  such  a  thing  would  never  be  re- 
quired of  her,  at  least  by  this  generous  friend. 
Indeed,  she  knew  well  that  ho  would  be  most 
likely  to  refuse  her  confidence,  even  if  she  were 
to  offer  it  on  such  an  ocoision  as  this. 

"I  feel,"  said  Zillah  at  length,  as  these 
thoughts  oppressed  her,  "that  I  am  in  a  false 
position.  You  have  been  so  generous  to  me  that 
you  have  a  right  to  know  all  about  me.  I  ought 
to  let  you  know  my  true  name,  and  make  yoa  ac- 
quainted with  the  story  of  my  life." 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


177 


"  Von  ought  to  do  nothing  of  the  sort,"  said 
Ohed  Cliute.  ''  There  lire  some  things  which 
can  not  be  breathed  to  any  human  being.  Do 
you  form  so  low  an  estimate  of  me.  my  dear 
child,  as  to  think  that  1  would  wish  to  have  your 
confidence  unless  it  was  absolutely  necessary, 
mid  for  your  own  good  'i  No.  You  do  not  un- 
derstand me.  Tiie  afl'ection  which  I  have  for 
you,  which  you  call  generosity,  gives  me  no  such 
I  claim,  and  it  gives  me  no  desire  to  tear  open 
those  wounds  which  your  poor  heart  must  feel  so 
keenly.  Nothing  can  prevent  my  loving  you.  I 
lell  you  you  are  my  daughter.'  I  accept  you  as 
you  are.  I  wish  to  know  nothing,  i  know 
enough  of  you  from  my  knowledge  of  your  char- 
acter. 1  only  know  this,  that  you  have  suffered  ; 
and  I  should  like  very  much  to  be  able  to  console 
you  or  make  you  happier." 

"  You  have  done  \ery  much  for  me,"  said  Zil- 
l.di,  looking  at  him  with  deep  emotion. 

"  Nothing,  as  far  as  I  am  concerned  ;  but  it  is 
jileasiint  to  me  to  know  t*iat  any  thing  which  I 
have  (lone  is  grateful  to  y\\"  said  Ohed,  calmly 
and  benignantly.  "Keep  your  secret  to  your- 
self, my  dear  child.  You  came  to  me  from  the 
sea  ;  and  I  only  hope  that  yon  will  continue  with 
me  as  long  as  you  can  to  brighten  my  life,  and 
let  me  hear  your  voice  and  see  your  face.  And 
iliat  is  a  simple  wish.     Is  it  not,  my  child  ?" 

"You  are  overwhelming  me  with  your  good- 
ness, "said  Zillah,  with  another  grateful  glance. 

She  was  most  grateful  for  the  way  in  which 
Ohed  had  given  up  his  idea  of  matrimony.  Had 
he  shown  the  excitement  of  a  disappointed  lover, 
then  there  would  have  been  a  dark  future  before 
her.  She  would  have  had  to  leave  his  family, 
among  whom  she  had  found  a  home.  But  ( )beil 
showed  nothing  of  this  kind.  He  hims'ilf  said 
that,  if  be  could  not  have  her  as  a  wife,  l;e  would 
be  satisfied  to  have  her  as  a  daughter.  And 
when  he  learned  that  she  was  married,  he  at 
(>nce  took  nj)  the  paternal  attitude,  and  the  af- 
fection which  lie  expressed  was  that  tender  yet 
calm  feeling  which  might  become  a  father.  At 
the  expression  of  such  a  feeling  as  this  Zillah's 
generous  and  loving  heart  responded,  and  all 
her  nature  warmed  beneath  its  genial  influence. 
Yes,  she  would  be  to  him  as  a  daughter;  she 
would  show  him  all  the  gratitude  and  devotion 
of  which  she  was  capable.  Under  such  circum- 
.stances  as  these  her  life  could  go  on  as  it  had 
liefore,  and  the  interview  of  to-day  would  not 
cast  the  slightest  shadow  over  the  sunshine  of 
the  future.     Ko  she  felt,  and  so  she  said. 

Obed  took  pains  to  assure  her  over  and  over 
again  how  entiiely  he  had  sunk  all  considera- 
tions of  himself  in  his  regard  for  her,  and  that 
the  idea  of  making  her  his  wife  was  not  more 
l)recious  than  that  of  making  her  his  daughter. 

"  It  was  to  have  you  near  me,"  said  he,  "  to 
make  you  hap|)y,  to  give  you  a  home  which 
should  be  all  yours;  but  this  can  be  done  in 
another  and  a  better  way,  my  child :  so  1  urn 
content,  if  you  are." 

Before  they  left  the  place  Zillah  gave  him,  in 
general  terms,  an  outline  of  her  secret,  with- 
luit  mentioning  names  and  places.  She  said 
that  she  was  married  when  very  young,  that 
her  father  had  died,  that  the  man  to  whom  she 
had  been  married  disliked  her,  and  she  had  not 
seen  him  for  years;  that  once  she  had  seen  a 
letter  which  he  had  written  to  a  friend,  in  which 
«  M 


'  he  alluded  to  her  in  such  insulting  language,  and 
with  such  expressions  of  abhorrence,  that  she 
had  gone  into  seclusion,  and  had  determined  to 
l>reserve  that  seclusion  till  she  died.  Hilda,  she 
said,  had  accompanied  her,  and  she  had  believed 
I  her  to  be  faithful  until  the  recent  discovery  of 
I  her  treachery. 

I     This  much  Zillah  felt  herself  bound  to  tell 
I  Obed  Chute.     From  this  he  could  at  once  un- 
derstand her  situation,  while  at  the  same  time  it 
;  would  be  impossible  for  him  to  know  who  she 
j  was  or  who  her  friends  were.     That  she  would 
I  not  tell  to  any  human  being. 
I      All  the  sympathies  of  Obed  Chute's  nature 
i  were  aroused  as  he  listened  to  what  Zillah  told 
\  him.     He  was  indignant  that  she  should  have 
been  led  through  any  motive  into  such  a  mar- 
riage.    In  bis  heart  he  blamed  her  friends,  who- 
ever they  were,  and  especially  her  father.     But 
most  of  all  be  blamed  this  unknown  husband  of 
hers,  who,  after  consenting  to  a  marriage,  had 
chosen   to   insult  and   revile   her.      What   he 
thought  be  did  not  choose  to  say,  but  to  him- 
self he  registered  a  vow  that,  if  he  could  ever 
'  find  out  this  villain,  he  would  avenge  all  Zillah's 
wrongs  in  his  hearts  blood,  which  vow  brought 
1  to  his  heart  a  great  peace  and  calm. 
I      This  day  was  an  eventful  one  for  Zillah,  but 
,  the  result  was  not  what  might  at  one  time  have 
I  been  feared.     After  such  an  interchange  of  con- 
I  fidence  there  was  an  understanding  between  her 
and  her  friend,  which  deepened  the  true  and 
sincere  friendship  that  e.xisted  between  them. 
Zillah's  manner  toward  him  became  more  con- 
:  fiding,  more  trustful — in  short,  more  filial.    He, 
I  too,  insensibly  took  up  the  part  of  a  parent  or 
■  guardian ;  yet  he  was  as  solicitous  about  her 
j  welfare  and  happiness  a^  in  the  days  when  he 
I  had  thought  of  making  her  his  wife. 


CHAPTER  LIII. 
beyond   his   beach. 

"Come!" 

Vriis  was  the  word  which  Hilda  had  addressed 
to  Gualtier  in  front  of  the  Hotel  Gibbon  at  Lau- 
sanne, and,  saying  this,  she  tottered  toward  the 
door,  8upi)orted  by  firetchen.  That  stout  Ger- 
man maid  upheld  her  in  her  strong  arms,  as  a 
mother  might  hold  up  a  child  as  it  learns  to  walk, 
ere  yet  its  unsteady  feet  have  found  out  the  way 
to  plant  themselves,  (jualtier  had  not  yet  got 
over  the  shock  of  such  a  surprise,  but  he  saw  her 
weakness,  and  was  sufficiently  himself  to  offer 
his  ann  to  assist  his  mistress.  But  Hilda  did  not 
seem  to  see  it.  At  any  rate  .she  did  not  accept 
the  offer.  Her  only  aim  was  to  get  into  the  ho- 
tel, and  the  assistance  of  Gretchen  was  quite 
enough  for  her. 

Although  Gretchen  thus  supported  her,  still 
even  the  slight  exertion  which  she  made,  even  the 
motion  of  her  limbs  which  was  reipiired  of  her, 
though  they  scarcely  felt  her  weight,  was  too 
much  for  her  in  her  weakness  and  jirostrntion. 
She  jianted  for  breath  in  her  utter  exhaustion,  and 
at  length,  on  reaching  the  hall,  she  stood  for  a 
few  moments  at  the  foot  of  the  stairway,  as  though 
struggling  to  regain  l.or  breath,  and  tlien  sudden- 
ly fainted  away  in  the  arms  of  CJretehen. 

At  this  the  stout  maid  took  her  in  her  arms, 


.M^'    i 


^ 


178 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


\l 


and  carried  her  np  stairs,  while  Gualtier  led  the 
way  to  the  suite  of  ajjiirtments  occupied  by  Lord 
Chetwyude.  Here  Hilda  was  placed  on  a  sofa, 
and  after  a  time  came  to  herself. 

She  then  told  (Jretchen  to  retire.  The  maid 
obeyed,  and  Hilda  and  (Jualtier  were  left  alone. 
The  latter  stood  regarding  her,  with  his  pule  face 
full  of  deep  anxiety  and  apprehension,  dreading 
he  knew  not  what,  and  seeing  in  her  something 
which  seemed  to  take  her  beyond  the  reach  of  that 
coercion  which  he  had  once  successfully  applied 
to  her. 

"  Tell  mo,"  cried  Hilda,  the  instant  that 
Gretchen  had  closed  the  door  after  her,  looking 
around  at  the  same  time  with  something  of  her 
old  (sharp  vigilance — "  tell  me,  it  is  not  too  late 
yet  to  save  him  ?" 

"  To  save  him  !"  repeated  Gualtier. 

"  Yes.     That  is  what  brought  me  here." 

Gualtier  looked  at  her  with  eager  scrutiny, 
seeking  to  fathom  her  full  mciining.  Suspecting 
the  truth,  he  was  yet  unwilling  to  believe  it. 

Jlis  answer  was  given  in  slow,  deliberate  tones. 

"  No, "  said  he,  ' '  it  is — not— yet— too— late— 
to — save  him — if  that  is  really  what  you  wish." 

"That  is  what  I  have  come  for,"  said  Hilda; 
"  I  am  going  to  take  my  place  at  his  bedside,  to 
undo  the  past,  and  bring  him  back  to  life.  That 
is  my  pur))ose.  Do  you  hear?"  she  said,  while 
her  white  lips  quivered  with  excitement,  and  her 
shattei'cd  frame  trembled  with  the  intensity  of 
her  emotion. 

"  I  hear,  my  lady,"  said  Gualtier,  with  his  old 
respect,  but  with  a  dull  light  in  his  gray  eyes,  and 
a  cold  and  stern  intonation  which  told  of  the  an- 
ger which  was  rising  within  him. 

Once  ho  had  shaken  off  her  authority,  and  had 
spoken  to  her  with  the  tone  of  a  master.  It  was 
not  probable  that  he  would  recede  now  from  the 
stand  which  he  had  then  taken.  Hut,  on  the 
other  hand,  Hilda  did  not  now  seem  like  one  over 
whom  his  old  menaces  woidd  have  any  effect. 
There  was  in  her,  besides  her  sufll'ering,  an  air  of 
reckless  self-sacrifice,  which  made  it  seem  as  if 
no  threats  of  his  could  again  afi'ect  her. 

"You  hear?"  said  she,  with  feverish  impa- 
tience.    "  Have  you  nothing  more  to  say  ?" 

"No,  nothing.  It  is  for  you  to  speak,"  said 
Gualtier,  gruffly.     "You  begun." 

"  He  must  be  saved,"  said  Hilda;  "and  I  must 
save  him  ;  and  you  must  help  nie. " 

Gualtier  turned  away  his  head,  while  a  dark 
frown  came  over  his  face.  The  gesture  excited 
Hilda  still  more. 

"  What ! '  she  hissed,  springing  to  her  feet,  and 
grasping  his  arm,  "do  you  hesitate?  Do  you 
refuse  to  assist  me  ?" 

"  Our  relations  are  changed,"  said  Gualtier, 
slowly,  turning  round  as  he  spoke.  "  This  thing 
I  will  not  do.     I  have  begun  my  work." 

As  he  turned  ho  encountered  the  eyes  of  Hil- 
da, whiclj  were  fixed  on  him — stem,  wrathful, 
menacing. 

"  You  have  begun  it !"  she  repeated.  ''  It  was 
my  work — not  yours.  I  order  you  to  desist,  and 
you  must  obey.  You  can  not  do  any  thing  else. 
To  go  on  is  impossible,  if  I  stand  between  you 
and  him.  Only  one  thing  is  left  for  you,  and  that 
is  to  obey  me,  and  assist  me  as  before." 

"  Obey  you  !"  said  (iualtier,  with  a  cold  and 
almost  ferocious  glance.  "The  time  for  obe- 
dience I  think  is  past.     That  much  you  ought  to 


know.  And  what  is  it  that  you  ask  ?  What  ? 
To  thrust  from  me  the  dearest  hope  of  my  life, 
and  just  as  it  was  reaching  fruition." 

Hilda's  eyes  werfl  fastened  on  Gualtier  as  he 
said  these  words.  The  scorn  with  which  he  dis- 
owned any  obedience,  the  confidence  with  which 
he  spoke  of  that  renunciation  of  his  former  sub- 
ordination, were  but  ill  in  accordance  with  those 
words  with  which  he  expressed  his  "  dearest 
hope." 

"  Dearest  hope  !  '  said  Hilda — "  fruition  !  If 
you  knew  any  thing,  you  would  know  that  the 
time  for  that  is  rapidly  passing,  and  only  your 
prompt  obedience  and  assistance  will  benefit  you 
now. " 

"  Pardon  me,"  said  Gualtier,  hastily;  "  I  for- 
got myself  in  my  excitement.  But  you  ask  im- 
possible things.  1  can  not  help  you  here.  The 
obstacle  between  you  and  me  was  nearly  removed 
— and  you  ask  me  to  replace  it." 

"  Obstacle !"  said  Hilda,  in  scorn.  "  Is  it  thus 
that  you  mention  /lint  y"  In  her  weakness  her 
wrath  and  indignation  burst  forth.  "  That  man 
whom  yon  cull  an  obstacle  is  one  for  whose  sake 
I  have  dragged  myself  over  hundreds  of  miles ; 
for  whom  I  am  now  ready  to  lay  down  my  life. 
Do  not  wonder.  Do  not  (luestion  me.  Call  it 
passion — madness — any  thing — but  do  not  at- 
tempt ti)  thwart  me.  Speak  now.  Will  you 
help  me  or  not  ?" 

"Help  you!"  cried  Gualtier,  bitterly,  "helji 
yon  !  to  what  ?  to  do  that  which  will  destroy  my 
last  hojie — and  after  I  have  e.xtorted  from  you 
your  promise  !     Ask  me  any  thing  else. " 
"  I  vva.it  nothing  else." 
"  You  may  yet  want  my  aid." 
"If  yon  do  not  help  me  now,  I  shall  never 
want  you." 

"  You  have  needed  mo  before,  and  will  need 
meagflin." 

"  If  /le  dies,  I  shall  never  need  you  again." 
"  If  /le  dies,  that  is  the  very  time  when  you 
will  need  me." 

"  No,  I  shall  not — for  if  he  dies  I  will  die  my- 
self!" cried  Hilda,  in  a  burst  of  uncontrollable 
pa.ssion. 

Gualtier' started,  and  his  heart  sank  within 
him.  Long  and  earnestly  he  looked  at  her,  but 
ho  saw  that  this  was  more  than  a  fitful  outburst 
of  ])assion.  Looking  on  her  face  with  its  stern 
and  fixed  resolve,  with  its  intense  meaning,  ho 
knew  that  what  she  had  said  was  none  other 
than  her  calm,  set  purpose.  He  saw  it  in  every 
one  of  those  faded  lineaments,  upon  which  such 
a  change  had  been  wrought  in  so  short  a  time. 
He  read  it  in  the  hollows  round  her  eyes,  in  her 
sunken  cheeks,  in  her  white,  bloodless  lips,  in 
her  thin,  emaciated  hands,  which  were  now 
clenched  in  desperate  resolve.  From  this  he 
saw  that  there  was  no  appeal.  He  learned  hovv 
strong  that  passion  must  be  which  had  thus 
overmastered  her,  and  was  consuming  all  the 
energies  of  her  powerful  nature.  To  this  she 
Wf«5  sacrificing  the  labor  of  years,  and  all  the 
prospects  which  now  lay  before  her ;  to  this  she 
gave  uji  all  her  future  life,  with  all  its  possibili- 
ties of  wealth  and  honor  and  station.  A  cor- 
onet, a  casile,  a  princely  revenue,  rank,  wealth, 
and  title,  all  lay  before  her  within  her  grasp; 
yet  now  she  tumed  her  back  upon  them,  and 
came  to  the  bedside  of  the  man  whoso  death 
was  necessary  to  her  success,  to  save  him  from 


THE  CKYrTOGRAM. 


179 


dcnth.  She  trnmpleil  her  own  interests  in  the 
(lust ;  she  threw  to  the  winds  tlie  hard-won  re- 
sults of  treachery  and  crime,  and  oidy  that  she 
might  he  near  him  who  ahhorred  her,  and  whose 
first  word  on  coming  hack  to  consciousness  might 
he  an  im])rocation.  Beside  this  man  who  hated 
lier.  he  who  adorc<l  her  was  as  nothing,  and  all 
his  devotion  and  all  his  adoration  were  in  one  mo- 
ment forgotten. 

All  these  thoughts  flashed  through  the  mind 
of  (iualtier  as  at  that  instant  he  comprehended 
the  situation.  And  what  was  he  to  do  ?  Could 
he  associate  himself  with  her  in  this  new  purpose  ? 
He  could  not.  He  might  have  refrained  from 
the  work  of  death  at  the  outset,  if  she  had  hid 
him  refrain,  hut  now  that  he  had  begun  it,  it 
was  not  easy  to  give  it  up.  She  had  set  him  to 
the  task.  It  had  been  doubly  sweet  to  him. 
First,  it  was  a  delight  to  his  own  vindictive  na- 
ture ;  and  secondly,  he  had  flattered  himself  that 
this  would  be  an  offering  well  pleasing  to  the  wo- 
man whom  he  adored.  Slie  had  set  him  to  this 
task,  and  when  t  was  fully  completed  he  might 
hope  for  an  adequate  reward.  From  the  death  of 
this  man  he  had  accustomed  himself  to  look  for- 
ward in  anticipation  of  the  highest  happiness  for 
himself.  All  his  future  grew  bright  from  the 
darkness  of  this  deed. 

Now  in  one  instant  his  dream  was  dis])elled. 
The  very  one  who  had  commanded  him  to  do 
this  now  came  in  a  kind  of  frenzy,  with  a  face 
like  that  of  death,  l)idding  him  to  stay  his  hand. 
Deep,  dark,  and  bitter  was  that  disa])pointment, 
and  all  the  more  so  from  its  utter  suddenness. 
And  because  he  could  read  in  her  face  and  in 
her  words  not  oidy  the  change  that  had  taken 
jilace,  but  also  the  cause  of  that  change,  the 
revulsion  of  feeling  within  himself  became  the 
more  intolerable.  His  nature  rose  up  in  rebell- 
ion'against  this  capricious  being.  Ilow  could 
he  yield  to  her  wishes  here  ?  He  could  not  sway 
with  every  varying  feeling  of  hers.  He  could 
not  thus  retire  from  his  unfinished  work,  and 
give  uj)  his  vengeance. 

Indignant  as  he  was,  there  was  yet  something 
in  Hilda's  countenance  which  stirred  to  its 
de])ths  the  deep  passion  of  his  soul.  Her  face 
had  the  exjjression  of  one  who  had  made  up  her 
mind  to  die.  To  such  a  one  what  words  could 
he  say — what  arguments  could  he  use?  For  a 
time  pity  overmastered  anger,  and  hi.s  answer 
was  mild. 

"  You  ask  impossibilities,"  said  he.  "  In  no 
case  can  1  help  you.  I  will  not  even  let  you  do 
what  you  propose. " 

Hilda  looked  at  him  with  a  cold  glance  of 
scorn.     She  seated  herself  once  more. 

"  You  will  not  let  me !"  she  repeated. 

"  Certainly  not.  I  shall  go  on  with  the  work 
which  I  have  begun.  But  I  will  see  that  you 
receive  the  best  attention.  You  are  excited 
now.  Shall  I  tell  the  maid  to  come  to  you? 
You  had  better  put  an  end  to  this  interview ;  it 
is  too  much  for  you.     You  need  rest." 

Gualtier  spoke  quietly,  and  seemed  really  to 
feel  some  anxiety  about  her  excitement.  But 
he  miscalculated  utterly  the  nature  of  Hilda,  and 
relied  too  much  on  the  fact  that  he  had  once  ter- 
rified her.  These  cool  words  threw  into  Hilda  a 
vivid  excitement  of  feeling,  which  for  a  time 
turned  all  her  thoughts  upon  this  man,  Tvho  un- 
der such  circumstances  dared  to  resume  that 


tone  of  impudent  superiority  which  once  before 
he  had  ventured  to  adopt,  ller  strength  revived 
under  such  a  stimidus,  and  for  a  time  her  bitter 
contem|>t  and  indignation  stilled  the  deep  sorrow 
and  anxiety  of  her  heart. 

The  voice  with  which  she  answered  was  no 
longer  agitated  or  excited.  It  was  coid,  firm, 
and  penetrating — a  tone  which  reminded  him  of 
her  old  domineering  manner. 

"  You  are  not  asked  to  give  up  your  work," 
said  she.     "  It  is  done.     You  are  dismissed." 

"Dismissed!"  said  Gualtier,  with  a  sneer. 
"You  ought  to  know  that  I  urn  not  one  who 
can  be  di.smissed." 

"  I  know  that  you  can  be,  and  that  you  are," 
said  Hilda.  "If  you  were  capable  of  under- 
standing me  you  would  know  this.  But  you, 
base  and  low-born  hireling  that  you  are,  what 
can  there  he  in  common  between  one  like  you 
and  one  like  me  f" 

"  ( )ne  thing,"  soid  Gualtier.     "  Crime.  /" 

Hilda  changed  not  a  feature. 

"  What  care  1  for  that  ?  It  is  over.  I  have 
passed  into  another  life.  Your  coarse  and  vul- 
gar threats  avail  npthing.  This  moment  ends 
all  commimication  between  us  forever.  You 
may  do  what  you  like.  All  your  threats  are 
useless.     Finally,  you  must  go  away  at  once.  ' 

"Go  away?" 

"  Yes — at  once — and  forever.  These  rooms 
shall  never  see  you  again.  /  am  here,  and  will 
stay  here." 

"  You  ?" 

"/.'" 

"  You  have  no  right  here." 

"I  have." 

"What  right?" 

"The  right  of  low"  said  Hilda.  "I  come 
to  save  him!" 

"You  tried  to  kill  him." 

"That  is  passed.     I  will  save  him  now." 

"You  are  mad.  You  know  that  this  is  idle. 
You  know  that  I  am  a  determined  and  despe- 
rate man." 

"Pooh!  What  is  the  determination  or  the 
desperation  ©f  one  like  you  ?  I  know  well  what 
you  think.  Once  you  were  able  to  move  me 
by  your  threats.  That  is  passed.  My  resolve 
and  my  despair  have  placed  me  beyond  your  reach 
forever.  Go — go  away.  Begone !  Take  your 
threats  with  you,  and  do  your  worst." 

"  You  are  mad — you  are  utterly  mad,"  said 
Gualtier,  confounded  at  the  desperation  of  one 
whom  he  felt  was  so  utterly  in  his  power;  one, 
too,  who  herself  must  have  known  this.  "You 
have  forgotten  your  past.  Will  you  force  me  to 
remind  you  of  it?" 

"  I  have  forgotten  nothing,"  said  Hilda ;  "but 
I  care  nothing  for  it. " 

"You  must  care  for  it.  You  will  be  forced 
to.     Your  future  happens  to  depend  on  it. " 

"My  future  happens  to  be  equally  indifferent 
to  me,"  said  Hilda.  "I  have  given  up  all  my 
plans  and  hopes.  I  am  beyond  your  reach,  at 
any  rate.    You  are  powerless  against  me  now." 

Gualtier  smiled. 

"You  speak  lightly,"  said  he,  "of  the  past 
and  the  future.  You  are  excited.  If  you  tnink 
calmly  about  your  position,  you  will  see  t^at  you 
are  now  more  in  my  power  than  ever ;  and  you 
will  see,  also,  that  I  am  willing  to  use  that  pow- 
er.    Do  not  drive  me  to  extremes." 


180 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


# 


"Those  are  your  old  thrents,"  said  Hilda, 
with  bitter  coiitctnpt.     "They  are  stale  now." 

"Stale!"  repeated  (Jualtier.  "Tiicre  are 
things  which  can  never  be  stale,  and  in  such 
things  you  and  I  have  been  partners.  Must  I 
remind  you  of  them  ?" 

"  It's  not  at  all  necessary.  You  had  much 
better  leave,  and  go  back  to  England,  or  any 
where  else. " 

These  words  stung  Gualtier. 

"  1  will  recall  them,"  he  cried,  in  a  low,  fierce 
voice.  "  You  have  a  convenient  memory,  and 
may  succeed  for  a  time  in  banishing  your 
thoughts,  but  you  have  that  on  your  soul  which 
no  eHbrts  of  yours  can  banish — things  which 
must  haunt  you,  cold-blooded  as  you  are,  even 
IIS  they  have  haunted  me — my  God ! — and  haunt 
me  yet." 

"  The  state  of  your  mind  is  of  no  concern  to 
me.  You  had  better  obey  my  order,  and  go,  so 
as  not  to  add  any  more  to  your  present  apparent 
troubles." 

"Your  taunts  are  foolish,"  said  Gualtier,  sav- 
agely. "  You  are  in  my  power.  What  if  I  use 
it?" 

"Use  it,  then." 

Gualtier  made  a  gesture  of  despair. 

"Do  you  know  what  it  means?"  he  ex- 
claimed. 

"  I  suppose  so." 

"  You  do  not — you  can  not.  It  means  the 
downfall  of  all  your  hopes,  your  desires,  your 
plans." 

"I  tell  you  I  no  longer  care  for  things  like 
those." 

"  You  do  not  mean  it — you  can  not.  What ! 
can  you  come  down  from  being  Lady  Chetwynde 
to  plain  Hilda  Krieft?" 

"I  have  implied  that,  I  believe,"  said  Hilda, 
in  the  same  tone.  "Now  you  understand  me. 
(io  and  pull  me  down  as  fast  as  you  like." 

"Hut,"  .said  Gualtier,  more  excitedly,  "you 
lio  not  know  what  you  are  saying.  There  is 
something  more  in  store  for  you  than  mere  hu- 
miliation— something  worse  than  a  change  in 
station — something  more  terrible  than  ruin  it- 
self. You  are  a  criminal.  Y'ou  know  it.  It  is 
for  this  that  you  must  give  your  account.  And, 
remember,  such  crimes  as  yours  are  not  com- 
mon ones.  Such  victims  as  the  Earl  of  (^het- 
wynde  and  Zillah  are  not  those  whom  one  can 
sacrifice  with  impunity.  It  is  such  as  these  that 
will  be  traced  back  to  j'ou,  and  woe  be  to  you 
when  their  blood  is  required  at  your  hands! 
Can  you  face  this  prospect?  Is  this  future  so 
very  indifferent  to  you?  If  you  have  nothing 
like  remorse,  are  you  also  utterlv  destitute  of 
fe^r?"  '      .    . 

"Yes,"  said  Hilda. 

"  I  don't  believe  it,"  said  Gualtier,  rudely. 

"  That  is  because  you  think  I  have  no  alterna- 
tive," said  Hilda  ;  "  it  is  a  mistake  into  which  a 
base  and  cowardly  nature  might  naturally  fall." 

"  You  have  no  alternative,"  said  Gualtier. 
"It's  impossible." 

"  I  have,"  said  Hilda,  calmly. 

"What'?" 

She  whispered  one  word.  It  struck  upon 
(lualtier's  ear  with  fearful  emphasis.  Jt  was  the 
■iame  word  which  she  had  once  whispered  to  him 
in  the  purk  at  Chetwynde.  He  recoiled  with 
liorror.     A  shudder  passed  through  him.     Hilda 


looked  at  him  with  calm  and  unchanged  con- 
tempt. 

"  You  dare  not,"  he  cried. 

"Dare  not?"  she  repeated.  "What  I  dare 
administer  to  others  I  dare  administer  to  myself, 
(io  and  perform  your  threats !  Go  with  your  in- 
formation— go  and  let  loose  the  authorities  upon 
mel  Gol  Haste!  Go — and  see — seehowquick- 
ly  and  how  completely  I  will  elude  your  grnsj)  I 
As  for  you — your  power  is  gone.  You  made  one 
effort  to  exert  it,  and  succeeded  for  the  moment. 
But  that  has  passed  away.  Never — never  more 
can  any  threats  of  yours  move  me  in  the  slight- 
est. You  know  that  I  am  resolute.  Whether 
you  believe  that  I  am  resolute  about  this  matter 
or  not  makes  no  difference  whatever  to  me.  You 
are  to  go  from  this  place  at  once — away  from  this 
l)lace,  and  this  town.  That  is  my  mandate.  I 
am  going  to  stay ;  and,  since  you  have  refused 
your  assistance,  I  will  do  without  it  henceforth." 

At  these  words  Gualtier's  face  grew  pale  with 
rage  and  despair.  He  knew  well  Hilda's  resolute 
character.  That  her  last  determination  would 
be  carried  out  he  could  scarcely  doubt.  Yet  still 
his  rage  and  his  pride  burst  forth. 

"  Hilda  Krieft',"  said  he,  for  the  first  time  dis- 
carding the  pretense  of  respect  and  the  fidse  title 
by  which  he  had  so  long  addressed  her,  "  do  you 
not  know  who  you  are  ?  What  right  have  you 
to  order  me  away,  and  stay  here  yourself — you 
with  the  Earl  of  Chetwynde — you,  an  unmarried 
girl  ?    Answer  me  that,  Hilda  Kriefl^." 

"  What  right?"  said  Hilda,  asloftily  as  before, 
utterly  unmoved  by  this  utterance  of  her  true 
name.  ' '  What  right  ?  The  right  of  one  who 
comes  in  love  to  save  the  object  of  her  love. 
That  is  all.  By  that  right  1  dismiss  3'()u.  I 
drive  you  away,  and  stand  myself  by  his  bedside, " 

"You  are  very  bold  and  very  reckless,"  said 
he,  with  his  white  face  turned  toward  her,  half 
in  rage,  half  in  despair.  "  Y'ou  are  flinging 
yourself  into  a  position  which  it  will  be  impos- 
sible for  you  to  hold,  and  you  are  insulting  and 
defying  one  who  can  at  any  moment  have  you 
thrust  from  the  place.  I,  if  I  chose,  could  now, 
at  this  instant,  have  you  arrested,  and  in  this 
very  room." 

"  You  !"  said  Hilda,  with  a  sneer. 

"Yes,  I,"  said  Gualtier,  emphatically.  "1 
have  but  to  lodge  my  information  with  the  au- 
thorities against  you,  and  licrwr"  '••n  minutes  you 
would  lie  carried  away  from  this  place,  ana  sepa- 
rated from  that  man  forever.  Yes,  Hilda  KriefF, 
I  can  do  that,  and  you  know  it ;  and  yet  you  dare 
to  taunt  me  and  insult  me,  and  drive  me  on  to  do 
things  of  which  I  might  afterward  repent.  God 
knows  I  do  not  wish  to  do  any  thing  but  what  is 
in  accordance  with  your  will.  At  this  moment 
I  would  still  obey  any  of  your  commands  but 
this  one ;  yet  you  try  me  more  than  mortal  nature 
can  endui«,  and  I  warn  you  that  I  will  not  bear 
it." 

Hilda  laughisd. 

Since  this  interview  had  commenced,  instead  of 
growing  weaker,  she  had  seemed  rather  to  grow 
stronger.  It  was  as  though  the  excitement  had 
been  a  .stimulus,  and  had  roused  her  to  a  new  life. 
It  had  torn  her  thoughts  suddenly  and  violently 
away  from  the  things  over  which  she  had  long 
brooded.  Pride  had  been  stirred  up,  and  had  re- 
paired the  ravages  of  love.  At  this  last  threat 
of  Gualtier's  she  laughed. 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


181 


but 


"  Poor  creature !"  she  said.  "  And  do  you  real- 
ly think  you  tan  do  any  tiling  here  ?  Your  only 
place  where  you  have  any  clianee  is  in  Kn^hind, 
;ind  then  only  by  lung  and  careful  ])rcparation. 
What  could  you  do  here  in  Lausanne  ?" 

"  I  could  have  you  flung  in  prison,  and  sepa- 
rated from  him  forever,"  said  Gualtier,  fiercely. 

"You!  you!  And  pray  do  you  know  who 
you  are  'i  Lord  C'hetwynde's  valet !  And  who 
would  take  your  word  against  Lord  Chetwynde's 
wife  ?" 

"  That  you  are  not." 

"  I  am,    said  Hilda,  firmly. 

"  My  God !  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  I  mean  that  I  will  stand  up  for  my  rights, 
and  crush  you  into  dust  if  you  dare  to  enter  into 
any  frantic  attempt  against  me  here.  You!  why, 
what  are  you  ?  You  are  Lord  Chetwynde's 
scoundrel  valet,  who  jilotted  against  his  master. 
More  in  these  rooms  are  the  witnesses  and  the 
l)roofs  of  your  crimes.  You  would  bring  an  ac- 
cusation against  me,  would  you  ?  You  would  in- 
form the  magistrates,  perhaps,  that  I  am  not  Lady 
t^hetwynde — that  I  am  an  impostor — that  my  true 
name  is  Hilda  Krieff — that  1  sent  you  on  an  er- 
rand to  destroy  your  master  ?  And  pray  have 
you  thought  how  you  could  prove  so  wild  and  so 
improbable  a  fiction  ?  Is  there  one  thing  that 
you  could  bring  forward  ?  Is  there  one  living  be- 
ing who  would  sustain  the  charge  ?  You  know 
that  there  is  nothing.  Your  vile  slander  would 
only  recoil  on  your  own  head  ;  and  even  if  I  did 
nothing — even  if  I  treated  you  and  your  charge 
with  silent  contempt,  you  yourself  would  sutter, 
for  the  charge  would  excite;  such  suspicion  against 
you  that  you  would  undoubtedly  be  arrested. 

"  But,  unfortunately  for  you,  I  would  not  be 
silent.  I  would  come  forward  and  tell  the  mag- 
istrates the  whole  truth.  And  1  think,  without 
self-conceit,  there  is  enough  in  my  appearance  to 
win  for  me  belief  against  the  wild  and  frenzied 
iaiuies  of  a  vulgar  valet  like  you.  Who  would 
believe  you  when  Lady  Chetwynde  came  forward 
to  tell  her  story,  and  to  testify  against  you  ? 

"  I  will  tell  you  what  Lady  Chetv  yiide  would 
have  to  say.  She  would  tell  hovy  she  once  em- 
jiloyed  you  in  Kngland  ;  how  you  suffered  some 
sliglit  from  her;  how  you  were  dismissed  from 
her  service.  That  then  you  went  to  London,  and 
engaged  yourself  as  valet  to  Lord  Chetwynde,  by 
whom  you  were  not  known  ;  that,  out  of  venge- 
ance, ;,ou  determined  to  ruin  him.  That  Lady 
(Chetwynde  was  anxious  about  her  husband,  and, 
hearing  of  his  illness,  followed  him  from  place  to 
lilace ;  that,  owing  to  her  intense  anxiety,  she 
broke  down  and  nearly  died ;  that  she  finally 
reached  this  place  to  find  her  villainous  servant — 
the  one  whom  she  had  dismissed — acting  as  her 
husband's  valet.  That  she  turned  him  off'  on  the 
spot,  whereupon  he  went  to  the  authorities,  and 
lodged  some  malicious  and  insane  charges  against 
her.  But  Lady  Chetwynde  would  have  more 
than  this  to  say.  She  could  show  certain  vialx, 
which  are  no  doubt  in  these  rooms,  to  a  doctor  ; 
and  he  could  aiudyze  their  contents  ;  and  he 
could  tell  to  the  court  what  it  was  that  had  causeil 
this  mysterious  disease  to  one  who  had  always 
before  been  so  healthy.  And  where  do  you  think 
your  charge  would  be  in  the  face  of  Lady  Chet- 
wynde's story  ;  in  the  face  of  the  evidence  of  the 
^ials  and  the  doctor's  analysis  ?" 

Hilda  paused  and  regarded  Gualtier  with  cold 


contempt.  Gualtier  felt  the  terrible  truth  of  all 
that  she  had  said.  He  saw  that  here  in  Lau- 
sanne he  had  no  chance.  If  he  wished  for  venge- 
ance ho  would  have  to  delay  it.  And  yet  he 
did  not  wish  for  any  vengeance  on  her.  She  had 
for  the  present  eluded  his  grasp.  In  spite  of  his 
assertion  of  jiower  over  her — in  spite  of  the  co- 
ercion by  which  he  had  once  extorted  a  promise 
from  her — he  was,  after  all,  full  of  that  same 
all-absorbing  love  and  idolizing  afl'ection  for  her 
which  had  made  him  for  so  many  years  her  will- 
ing shive  and  her  blind  tool.  Now  this  sudden 
reassertion  of  her  old  supremacy,  while  it  roused 
all  his  pride  and  stimulated  his  anger,  excited 
also. at  the  same  time  his  admiration. 

He  spoke  at  length,  and  his  tone  was  one  of 
sadness. 

"There  is  one  other  thing  which  is  against 
me,"  said  he;  "my  own  heart.  I  can  not  do 
any  thing  against  you." 

"  Your  heart,"  said  Hilda,  "  is  very  ready  to 
hold  you  back  when  you  see  danger  ahead." 

Gualtier's  pale  face  flushed. 

"That's  false,"  said  he,  "and  you  know  it. 
Did  my  heart  (piail  on  that  midnight  sea  when 
I  was  face  to  face  with  four  ruffians  and  (juelled 
their  mutiny  ?  You  have  already  told  me  that  it 
was  a  bold  act." 

"Well,  at  least  you  were  armed,  and  they 
were  not,"  said  Hilda,  with  unchanged  scorn. 

"  Enough,"  cried  Gualtier,  flushing  a  deeper 
and  an  angrier  red.  "  I  will  argue  with  you  no 
more.  I  will  yield  to  you  this  time.  I  will 
leave  the  hotel  and  Lausanne.  I  will  go  to 
England.  He  shall  be  under  your  care,  and  you 
may  do  what  you  choose. 

"  But  remember  this,"  lie  continued,  waming- 
ly.  "I  have  your  promise,  given  to  me  solemn- 
ly, and  that  promise  I  will  yet  claim.  This  man 
may  recover ;  but,  if  he  does,  it  will  only  be  to 
despise  you.  His  abhorrence  will  be  the  only 
reward  that  you  can  expect  for  your  passion  and 
your  mad  self-sacrifice.  But  even  if  it  were 
possible  for  him  to  love  you — yes,  to  love  you  as 
you  love  him — even  then  yon  could  not  have 
him.  For  I  live ;  and  while  I  live  you  could 
never  be  his.  No,  never.  I  have  your  promise, 
and  I  will  come  between  you  and  him  to  sunder 
you  forever  and  to  cast  you  down.  That  much, 
at  least,  I  can  do,  and  you  know  it. 

"  Ar.d  now  farewell  for  the  present.  In  any 
event  you  will  need  me  again.  I  shall  go  to 
Chetwynde  Castle,  and  wait  there  till  1  am 
wanted.  The  time  will  yet  come,  and  that 
soon,  when  you  will  again  wish  my  help.  I 
will  give  you  six  months  to  try  to  carry  out  this 
wild  plan  of  yours.  At  the  end  of  that  time  I 
shall  have  something  to  do  and  to  say ;  but  I  ex- 
pect to  be  needed  before  then.  If  I  am  needed, 
you  may  rely  upon  me  as  before.  I  will  forget 
every  injury  and  be  ai  devoted  as  ever. " 

With  these  ominous  words  Gualtier  with- 
drew. 

Hilda  sank  back  in  her  chair  exhausted,  and 
sat  for  some  time  pressing  her  hand  on  her 
heart. 

At  length  she  summoned  her  strength,  and, 
rising  to  her  feet,  she  walked  feebly  through 
several  rooms.  Finally  she  reached  one  which 
was  darkened.  A  bed  was  there,  on  which  lay 
a  figure.  The  figure  was  quite  motionless;  but 
her  heoit  told  her  who  this  might  be. 


182 


THE  CRYrrOGllAM. 


CHAPTER  LIV. 

NURRINO     THE     SICK. 

The  flgiiro  thnt  lay  upon  the  bed  ns  Hilda  en- 
tered the  room  Ncnt  n  shock  to  her  liciirt  nt  the 
(ii'Ht  glance.  Very  ditterunt  wiis  this  one  from 
that  tall,  strong  niun  who  but  lately,  in  all  the 
pride  of  manly  beauty  and  matured  strength, 
overawed  her  by  liis  presence.  What  was  he 
now  ?  Where  now  was  all  that  virile  force,  and 
strong,  resistless  nature,  whoso  overmastering 
]>ower  she  had  experienced?  Alas!  hut  little 
of  it  could  be  seen  in  this  wasted  and  enuicialed 
figure  that  now  lay  before  her,  seemingly  at  the 
la.st  verge  of  life.  His  features  had  grown  thin 
and  attenuated,  his  lips  were  drawn  light  over 
his  teeth,  his  face  had  the  stamp  of  something 
like  death  upon  it.  Ho  was  sleeping  titfully, 
but  his  eyes  were  only  half  closed.  His  thin, 
bony  hands  moved  restlessly  about,  and  his  lips 
muttered  inarticulate  words  from  time  to  time. 
Hilda  placed  her  hand  on  his  foreheiul.  It  was 
cold  and  damp.  The  cold  sent  a  chill  through 
every  nerve.  She  bent  down  low  over  him. 
She  devoured  him  with  her  eyes.  That  face, 
worn  away  l>y  the  progress  of  disease,  that  now 
luy  unconscious,  and  without  a  ray  of  intelli- 
gence beneath  her,  was  yet  to  her  the  best  thing 
in  all  the  world,  atid  the  one  for  which  she  would 
willingly  give  up  the  world.  She  stooped  low 
down.  She  pressed  her  lips  to  his  cold  fore- 
head. An  instatit  she  hesitated,  and  then  she 
pressed  her  lips  this  time  to  the  white  li|)S  that 
were  before  her.  The  lonjj,  ))assionaie  kiss  did 
not  wake  the  slumberer.  He  knew  not  that  over 
him  was  bending  one  who  had  once  sent  him  to 
death,  but  who  now  would  give  her  own  life  to 
bring  him  back  from  that  death  to  which  she  had 
sent  him. 

Such  is  the  change  which  can  be  worked  in 
the  basest  nature  by  the  power  of  almighty  lovo. 
Here  it  was  made  numifest.  These  lips  had 
once  given  the  kiss  of  .ludas.  On  this  face  of 
hers  the  Earl  of  I'hetwynde  had  gazed  in  hor- 
ror ;  and  these  hands  of  hers,  that  now  touched 
tremblingly  the  brow  of  the  sick  man.  had  once 
wrought  out  on  him  that  which  would  never  bo 
maile  known.  But  the  lips  which  once  gave  the 
kiss  of  Judas  now  gave  that  kiss  which  was  the 
outpoiu'ing  of  the  devotion  of  all  her  soul,  and 
these  hands  were  ready  to  deal  death  to  herself 
to  rescue  him  from  evil.  She  twined  her  arms 
around  his  neck,  and  gazed  at  him  us  though  her 
longing  eyes  would  devoiu-  every  lineament  of 
his  features.  Again  and  again  she  pressed  her 
lips  to  his,  as  though  she  would  thus  force  upon 
him  life  and  health  and  strength.  But  the 
sick  man  lay  unconscious  in  her  arms,  all  im- 
heeding  that  full  tide  of  passionate  love  which 
was  surging  and  swelling  within  her  bosom. 

At  last  footstejis  aroused  her.  A  woman  en- 
tered. She  walked  to  the  bedside  and  looked 
with  tender  sympathy  at  Hilda.  She  had  heard 
from  Gretchen  that  this  was  Lady  Chetwynde, 
who  had  come  to  nurse  her  husband. 

"Are  you  the  nurse?"' asked  Hilda,  who  di- 
vined at  one  glance  the  character  of  the  new- 
comer. 

"Yes,  my  lady." 

"Well,  I  am  to  be  the  nurse  after  this,  but  I 
should  like  you  to  remain.  You  can  wait  in  one 
of  the  ante-rooms." 


"  Forgive  mo,  my  lady,  if  I  say  that  you  your- 
self are  in  need  of  u  nurse.  You  will  not  be  able 
to  endure  this  fatigue.  You  look  overworn  now. 
Will  you  not  lake  some  rest  ?" 

"No,"  said  Hilda,  sharply  and  decisively. 
"My  lady,"  said   the  nurso,  "1  will  watch 

'  while  you  are  resting. " 

I      "  I  shall  not  leave  the  room.' 

"Then,  my  lady,  I  will  spread  a  mattress  on 
the  sofa,  and  you  may  lie  down." 

I  "  No,  I  am  best  here  by  his  side.  Here  I  can 
get  the  only  rest  and  the  only  strength  that  1 
want.  I  must  bo  near  enough  to  touch  his  hand 
and  to  see  his  face.     Here  I  will  stay." 

I      "  But,  my  lady,  you  will  break  ilown  utterly." 

'      "  No,  I  shall  not  break  down.    1  shall  be  strong 

'  enough  to  watch  him  initil  he  is  either  lietter  or 
worse,  if  he  gets  better,  he  will  bring  me.  back 
to  health  ;  if  he  gets  worse,  1  will  accompany  him 
to  the  tomb." 

j      Hilda  spoke  desperately.    Her  old  self-control, 

'  her  reticence,  and  calm  had  departed.  'Wio  nurse 
looked -at  her  with  a  face  full  of  synii)athy.  and 
said  not  a  word.     The  sight  of  this  young  and 

j  beautiful  wife,  herself  so  weak,  so  wan,  and  yet 
so  devoted,  so  young  and  beautiful,  yet  so  wast- 
ed and  emaciated,  whose  onlv  desire  was  to  live 
or  die  by  the  side  of  her  hu'<l>aiid,  roused  all  the 
feelings  of  her  heart.     To  some  Hilda's  ccjnduct 

I  woid(l  have  been  utiintclligible ;  but  this  honest 

•  Swiss  nin-se  was  kiiul-hearted  and  sentimental, 
and  the  fervid  devotion  and  utter  self-abnegation 

j  of  Hilda  brought  tears  to  her  eyes. 

"Ah,  my  lady,"  said  she,  "  1  see  I  shall  soon 

I  have  two  to  nurse." 

I      "  Well,  if  you  have,  it  will  not  be  for  long," 

]  said  Hilda. 

'J'he  nurse  sighed  ond  was  silent. 
"  May  I  remain,  my  lady,  or  shall  I  go?" she 
asked. 

"  You  may  go  just  now.  See  how  my  maid 
is  doing,  and  if  she  wants  any  directions." 

'i'he  nurse  rotined,  and  Hilda  was  again  alone 
with  the  sick  man.  She  sat  on  the  bedside  lean- 
ing over  him,  and  twined  her  arms  about  him. 
There,  as  he  lay,  in  his  weakness  and  senseless- 
ness, she  saw  her  own  work.  It  was  she,  and  no 
other,  who  had  doomed  him  to  this.  Too  well  had 
her  agent  carried  out  the  fatal  commission  which 
she  had  given.  As  his  valet  he  had  had  constant 
access  to  the  j)erson  of  Lord  Chetwynde,  and  had 
used  his  ojiportunities  well.  She  understood  [ler- 
fVictly  how  it  was  that  such  a  tiling  as  this  had 
been  brought  about.  She  knew  every  part  of  the 
dread  process,  and  had  read  enough  to  know  the 
inevitable  results. 

And  now — would  ho  live  or  die  ?  Life  was 
low.  Would  it  ever  rally  again  ?  Had  she  come 
in  time  to  save  him,  or  was  it  all  too  late  ?  The 
reproaches  which  she  hurled  against  herself  were 
now  overwhelming  her,  and  these  re])roaches  al- 
ternated with  feelings  of  intense  tenderness.  She 
was  weak  from  her  own  recent  illness,  from  the 
unwonted  fatigue  which  she  had  endured,  and 
from  the  excitement  of  that  recent  interview  with 
Gualtier.  Thus  torn  and  tossed  and  disti-acted 
by  a  thousand  contending  emotions,  Hilda  sat 
there  until  at  length  weakness  and  fatigue  over- 
powered her.  It  seemed  to  her  thrut  a  change 
was  coming  over  the  face  of  the  sick  man.  Sud- 
denly he  moved,  and  in  such  a  way  that  his  face 
was  turned  full  toward  her  as  ho  lay  on  his  side. 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


188 


AM    1IK8T   HERB   BY   HIS   8IDB. 


At  that  moment  it  secmeil  to  her  thnt  the  worst 
had  come — tliiit  at  lust  iluiirli  liimselt'  luul  phieed 
his  stiim|)  there,  niul  that  there  was  now  no  more 
liope.  i'lie  liorror  of  this  fancy  altogetiier  over- 
came her.     She  full  forward  and  sank  down. 

Wiieii  at  length  the  nurse  returned  she  found 
Hilda  senseless,  lying  on  the  bed,  with  Iier  arm 
still  under  the  head  of  Lord  Chetwynde.  Shq 
called  (iretchen,  and  tii'e  two  made  a  bed  on  the 
sofi,  where  they  lifted  Hilda  with  tenderest  care. 
She  lay  long  unconscious,  but  at  last  she  recov- 
ered, 'Her  first  thoughts  were  full  of  i)ewilder- 
ment,  but  finally  she  comprehended  the  whole 
situation. 

Now  at  length  she  found  that  she  had  been 
wasting  precious  moments  upon  useless  reflec- 
tions and  idle  self-reproaches.  If  she  had  come 
to  save,  that  safety  ought  not  to  bo  delayed.  She 
hurrieilly  drew  from  her  pocket  a  vial  and  opened 
it.  It  was  the  same  which  she  had  obtained  from 
the  London  druggist.  She  smelle<l  it,  and  then 
tasted  it.  After  this  she  rose  up,  in  spite  of  the 
solicitations  of  the  nurse  and  Gretchen,  and  tot- 
tered toward  tlie  bed  with  unsteady  steps,  suj)- 
ported  by  her  attendants.  Then  she  seated  her- 
self on  the  i)odsi(le,  and,  asking  for  a  spoon,  she 
tried  with  a  trembling  hand  to  pour  out  some  of 


the  mixture  from  the  vial.  ITer  hands  shook 
so  that  she  could  not.  In  despair  she  allowed 
the  nurse  to  administer  it,  while  Gretchen  suj)- 
ported  her,  seating  herself  behind  her  in  such  a 
way  that  Hilda  could  lean  against  her,  and  still 
.see  the  face  of  the  sick  man.  In  this  position 
she  watched  While  the  nurse  jjut  the  licjuid  into 
Lord  Chetwynde's  roouth,  and  saw  him  .swallow 
it. 

"  My  lady,  you  must  lie  down,  or  you  will 
never  get  over  this,"  said  the  nurse,  earnestly, 
and  passing  her  arms  around  Hilda,  she  gently 
drew  her  back  to  the  .sofa,  assisted  by  Gretchen. 
Hilda  allowed  herself  to  be  moved  back  without 
a  word.  For  the  remainder  of  that  day  she 
watched,  lying  on  her  sofa,  and  gave  directions 
about  the  regular  administration  of  the  medicine. 
At  her  request  they  drew  the  sofa  close  up  to  the 
bedside  of  Lord  Chetwynde,  and  pro])ped  her  u]) 
high  with  jiillows.  There  she  hiy  weakly,  with 
her  face  turned  toward  him,  and  her  hand  clasp- 
ing his. 

Night  came,  and  Hilda  still  watched.  Fatigue 
and  weakness  were  fast  overpowering  her. 
Against  these  she  struggled  bravely,  and  lay  with 
Iier  eyes  fixed  on  Lord  Chetwynde.  In  that  sharp 
exercise  of  her  senses,  which  were  all  aroused  in 


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184 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


m 


his  behalf,  she  becnrae  at  last  aware  of  the  fact 
that  they  were  getting  beyond  her  control.  Be- 
fore her  eyes,  as  she  gazed  upon  this  man,  there 
came  otiier  and  ditterent  visions.  She  saw  an- 
other sick-bed,  in  a  different  room  from  this,  with 
anotiier  form  stretclied  uj)on  it — a  form  like  this, 
yet  unlike,  for  it  was  older — a  form  with  vener- 
able gray  hairs,  with  white,  emaciated  face,  and 
with  eyes  full  of  fear  and  entreaty.  At  that 
sight  horror  came  over  her.  She  tried  to  rouse 
herself  from  the  fearful  state  into  which  she  was 
drifting.  She  summoned  up  all  that  remained  of 
her  physical  and  mental  energy.  The  struggle 
was  severe.  All  things  round  her  seemed  to 
change  incessantly  into  the  semblances  of  other 
things ;  the  phantoms  of  a  dead  past — a  dead  but 
not  a  forgotten  past — crowded  around  lier,  and 
all  the  force  of  her  will  was  unavailing  to  repel 
them.  She  shuddered  as  she  discovered  the  full 
extent  of  her  own  weakness,  and  saw  where  she 
was  drifting.  For  she  was  drifting  helplessly 
into  the  realm  of  shadowy  memories ;  into  the 
place  where  the  past  holds  its  empire ;  surround- 
ed by  all  those  forms  which  time  and  circum- 
stance have  rendered  dreadful;  forms  from  which 
memory  shrinks,  at  whose  aspect  the  soul  loses 
all  its  strength.  Here  they  were  before  her  ; 
ke])t  back  so  long,  they  now  crowded  upon  her ; 
they  asserted  themselves,  they  forced  themselves 
before  her  in  her  weakness.  Her  brain  reel- 
ed ;  the  strong,  active  intellect,  which  in  health 
had  been  so  powerful,  now,  in  her  hour  of  weak- 
ness, failed  her.  She  struggled  agiiinst  these 
horrors,  but  the  struggle  was  unavailing,  and  at 
last  she  yielded — she  failed — she  sank  down  head- 
long and  helplessly  into  the  abyss  of  forgotten 
things,  into  the  thick  throng  of  fijrms  and  images 
from  which  for  so  long  a  time  she  had  kept  her- 
self ajjart. 

Now  they  came  before  her. 

The  room  changed  to  the  oM  room  at  Chet- 
wynde  Castle.  There  was  the  window  looking 
out  upon  the  park.  Thtere  was  tlie  door  opening 
into  the  hall.  Zillah  stood  there,  pale  and  feivr- 
ful,  bidding  her  good-night.  There  was  the  bed 
upon  which  lay  the  form  of  a  venerable  man, 
whose  face  was  ever  turned  toward  her  with 
its  expression  of  fear,  and  of  piteous  entreaty. 
"Don't  leave  me."  he  murmured  to  the  phan- 
tom form  of  Zillah.  "  Don't  leave  me  with 
her,"  and  his  thin  finger  pointed  to  herself. 
But  Zillah,  ignorant  of  all  dangei',  promised  to 
send  Mrs.  Hart.  And  Zillah  walked  out,  stand- 
ing at  the  door  for  a  time  to  give  her  last  look — 
the  look  which  the  phantom  of  this  vision  now 
had.  Then,  with  a  momentary  glance,  the 
phantom  figure  of  Zillah  faded  away,  and  only 
the  prostrate  figure  of  the  Earl  ai)peared  before 
her,  with  the  white  face,  and  the  venerable  hair, 
and  the  imploring  eyes. 

Then  she  walked  to  the  window  and  looked 
out;  then  she  walked  to  the  door  and  looked 
down  the  hall.  Silence  was  every  where.  All 
were  asleep.  No  eye  beheld  her. '  Then  she  re- 
turned. She  saw  the  white  face  of  the  sick 
man,  and  the  imploring  eyes  encountered  hers. 
Again  she  walked  to  the  window ;  then  she  went 
to  his  bedside. 

She  stooped  down.  His  white  face  was  be- 
neath her,  with  the  imploring  eyes.  She  kissed 
him. 

"  Judas  1" 


That  was  the  sound  that  she  heard — the  lai't 
sound — for  soon  in  that  abhorrent  vision  the 
form  of  the  dead  lay  before  her,  and  aroimd  it 
the  household  gathered ;  and  Zillah  sat  there, 
with  a  face  of  agony,  looking  up  to  her  and  say- 
ing: 

"  I  am  the  next  victim !" 

Then  all  things  were  forgotten,  and  innumer- 
able forms  and  phantoms  came  confusedly  to- 
gether. 

She  was  in  delirium. 


CHAPTER  LV. 


SETTING    A    TRAP. 


GuALTiER  was  true  to  his  word.  On  the  even- 
ing of  the  day  when  he  had  that  interview  with 
Hilda  he  left  the  hotel,  and  Lausanne  also,  and 
set  out  for  England.  On  the  way  he  had  much 
to  think  of,  and  his  thoughts  were  not  at  all 
pleasant.  This  frenzy  of  llilda's  had  taken  him 
by  complete  surprise,  and  her  utter  recklessness 
of  life,  or  all  the  things  most  desirable  in  life, 
were  tilings  on  which  he  had  never  counted. 
Her  dark  resolve  also  which  she  had  announced 
to  him,  the  coolness  with  which  she  listened  to 
his  menaces,  and  the  stern  wny  in  which  she 
turned  on  him  with  menaces  of  her  own,  showed 
him  (ilainly  that,  for  the  present  at  least,  she  was 
beyond  his  reach,  and  nothing  which  he  might 
do  could  in  any  way  alfect  her.  Only  one  thing 
gave  him  hope,  and  that  was  the  utter  madness 
and  impossibility  of  her  design.  He  did  not 
know  what  might  have  passed  between  her  and 
Lord  Chetwynde  before,  but  he  conjectured  that 
she  had  be^n  treated  with  insult  great  enough  to 
inspire  her  with  a  thirst  for  vengeance.  He  now 
hoped  that  Lord  Chetwynde,  if  he  did  recover, 
would  regard  her  as  before.  He  was  not  a  man 
to  change ;  his  mind  '  id  been  deeply  imbit- 
tered  against  the  wom..in  vhom  he  believed  his 
wife,  and  recovery  of  sense  would  not  lessen  that 
bitterness.  So  (rualtier  thought,  and  tried  to 
believe,  yet  in  his  thoughts  he  also  considered 
the  possibility  of  a  reconciliation.  And,  if  such 
a  thing  could  take  place,  then  his  mind  was  fully 
made  up  what  to  do.  He  would  trample  out  all 
feelings  of  tenderness,  and  .sacrifice  love  to  full 
and  complete  vengeance.  That  reconciliation 
should  he  made  short-lived,  and  should  end  in 
utter  ruin  to  Hilda,  even  if  he  himself  descend- 
ed into  the  same  abyss  with  her. 

Thoughts  like  these  occupied  his  mind  until 
he  reached  London.  Then  he  drove  to  the 
Strand  Hotel,  and  took  two  front-rooms  on  the 
second  story  looking  out  upon  the  street,  com- 
manding a  view  of  the  dense  crowd  that  always 
went  thronging  by. 

Here,  on  the  evening  of  his  arrival,  his  thoughts 
turned  to  his  old  lodging-house,  and  to  those  nu- 
merous articles  of  value  which  he  had  left  there. 
He  had  once  made  up  his  mind  to  let  them  go, 
and  never  seek  to  regain  possession  of  them. 
He  was  conscious  that  to  do  .so  would  be  to  en- 
danger his  safety,  and  perhaps  to  put  a  watch- 
ful pursuer  ©nee  more  on  his  track.  Yet  there 
was  something  in  the  thought  which  was  attract- 
ive. Those  articles  were  of  great  intrinsic  vaU:'?, 
and  some  of  them  were  precious  souvenirs,  of 
Utile  worth  to  any  one  else,  yet  to  him  beyond 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


185 


price.  Would  it  not  be  worth  while  to  make  an 
effort  at  least  to  regain  possession  of  them?  If 
it  could  be  done,  it  would  represent  so  much 
money  at  the  least,  and  that  was  a  thing  whicli 
it  was  needful  for  liim  to  consider.  And,  in  any 
case,  those  mementoes  of  tlie  past  were  suffi- 
ciently valuable  to  call  for  some  effort  and  some 
risk.  The  more  he  thought  of  this,  the  more  re- 
sistless became  the  temptation  to  make  this  effort 
and  run  this  risk. 

And  what  danger  was  there?  What  was  the 
risk,  and  what  was  there  to  fear  ?  Only  one  per- 
son was  in  existence  from  whom  any  daii^fer 
could  possibly  be  apprehended.  That  one  wt.s 
Black  Hill,  who  had  tracked  him  to  London, 
and  afterward  watched  at  his  lodgings,  and  whom 
he  had  feared  so  much  that  for  his  sake,  and  for 
his  alone,  he  had  given  up  every  thing.  And 
now  tile  ((uestion  that  arose  was  this,  did  Black 
Bill  really  require  so  much  precaution,  and  so 
great  a  sacrifice  ?  It  was  not  likely  that  Black 
Bill  could  have  given  any  information  to  the 
police ;  that  would  have  been  too  dangerous  to 
himself.  Besides,  if  the  police  had  heard  of 
8ucii  a  story,  they  would  have  given  some  sign. 
In  England  every  thing  is  known,  and  the  police 
are  forced  to  work  openly.  Their  detective  sys- 
tem is  a  clumsy  one  comjiared  with  the  vast  sys- 
tem of  secrecy  carried  on  on  the  Continent.  Had 
they  found  out  any  thing  whatever  aliout  so  im- 
portant a  case  as  this,  some  kind  of  notice  or  oth- 
er would  have  apjieared  in  the  papers.  Gualtier 
had  never  ceased  to  watch  for  some  such  notice, 
but  Inid  never  found  one.  Iso,  wifh  such  opin- 
ions about  the  English  police,  he  naturally  con- 
cluded that  they  knew  nothing  about  him. 

It  was  therefore  Black  Bill,  and  Black  Bill 
only,  against  whom  he  had  to  guard.  As  for 
him  it  was  indeed  possible,  he  thought,  that)  he 
was  still  watching,  hut  hardly  probable.  He  was 
not  in  a  po.sition  to  spend  so  many  months  in 
idle  watching,  nor  was  he"able  to  employ  a  con- 
federate. iStill  less  was  it  possible  for  such  a 
man  to  win  the  landlord  over  to  his  side,  and 
thus  get  his  assistance.  The  more  he  thouglit 
of  these  things  the  more  useles.s  did  it  seem  to 
entertain  any  further  fear,  and  the  anore  irre- 
sistible did  his  desire  become  to  regain  posses- 
sion of  thosQ  articles,  which  to  him  were  of  so 
much  value.  Under  such  circumstances,  he 
finally  resolved  to  make  an  effort. 

Yet,  so  cautious  was  he  by  nature,  so  wary 
and  vigilant,  and  so  accustomed  to  be  on  his 
guard,  that  in  this  case  he  determined  to  run  no 
risk  by  any  exposure  of  his  person  to  observa- 
tion. He  therefore  deliberated  carefidly  about 
various  modes  liy  which  he  could  ap])ly  to  the 
landlord.  At  first  he  thought  of  a  disguise  ;  but 
finally  rejected  this  idea,  thinking  that,  if  Black 
Bill  were  really  watching,  he  would  expect  some 
kind  of  a  disguise.  At  last  he  decided  that  it 
would  be  safest  to  find  some  kind  of  a  messen- 
ger, and  send  him,  after  instructing  him  what  to 
ask  for  and  what  to  say. 

With  this  resolve  he  took  a  walk  out  on  the 
Strand  on  the  following  morning,  looking  care- 
fully at  the  faces  of  the  great  multitude  which 
thronged  the  street,  and  trying  to  find  some  one 
who  might  be  suited  to  his  purpose.  In  that 
crowd  tliere  were  many  who  would  have  gladly 
underti'l.en  bis  business  if  he  had  asked  them, 
but  Gualtier  had  made  up  his  mind  as  to  the 


kind  of  messenger  which  would  be  best  suited  to 
him,  and  was  unwilling  to  take  any  other. 

Among  the  multitude  which  London  holds 
almost  any  tyjie  of  man  can  be  found,  if  one  looks 
long  enough.  The  one  which  Gualtier  wished  is 
a  common  kind  there,  and  he  did  not  have  a  long 
search.  A  street  boy,  sharp,  quick-witted,  nim- 
ble, cuiuiing — that  was  what  he  wanted,  and  that 
was  what  he  fouiul.  :if'er  regarding  many  ditl'er- 
ent  specimens  of  '  it  tribe  and  rejecting  them. 
The  boy  whom  he  selected  was  somewliat  less 
ragged  than  his  companions,  with  a  demure  face, 
which,  however,  to  his  scrutinizing  eyes,  did  nt>t 
conceal  the  precocious  maturity  of  mind  and  fer- 
tility of  resource  which  lay  beneath.  A  few 
words  sufficed  to  explain  his  wish,  and  the  boy 
eagerly  accepted  the  task.  Gualtier  then  took 
him  to  acheap  clotliing  store,  and  had  himdressed 
in  clothes  which  gave  him  tlie  appearance  of 
being  the  son  of  some  small  tradesman.  After 
this  he  took  him  to  his  room  in  the  hotel,  and 
carefully  instructed  him  in  the  part  that  he  was 
to  perform.  The  boy's  wits  were  quickened  by 
London  life ;  the  promise  of  a  handsome  reward 
quickened  them  still  more,  and  at  length,  after 
a  final  questioning,  in  which  he  did  his  part  to 
satisfaction,  Gualtier  gave  him  the  address  of 
the  lodging-house. 

"I  am  going  west,"  said  he ;  "I  will  be  back 
before  eight  o'clock.  You  must  come  at  eight 
exactly." 

"Yes'r,"  said  the  bo)'. 

"Very  well.  Now  go."  And  the  boy,  witli 
a  bob  of  liis  head,  took  his  dejiarture. 

The  boy  went  off,  and  at  length  reached  the 
place  which  Gualtier  had  indicated.  He  rang  at 
the  door. 

A  servant  came. 

"  Is  this  Mr.  Gillis's  ?" 

"Yes." 

"  Is  he  in  ?" 

"Do  vou  want  to  see  him?" 

"Yes!" 

"What  for?" 

"  Particular  business." 

"  Come  in,"  said  the  servant ;  and  the  boy  en- 
tered the  hall  and  waited.  In  a  few  moments 
Mr.  Gillis  made  his  appearance.  He  regarded 
the  boy  carefully  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Come  into  the  parlor,"  said  he,  leading  the 
way  into  a  roo\p  on  the  right.  The  boy  followed, 
and  Mr.  Gillis  shut  the  door. 

"Well,"  said  he,  seating  liimself,  "what  is  it 
that  you  want  of  me  ?" 

"My  father,  '  said  the  boy,  "is  a  grocer  in 
Blackwall.  He  got  a  '  tter  this  morning  fi'oni 
a  friend  of  his  who  stopped  here  some  time  back. 
He  had  to  go  to  America  of  a  sudden  and  left 
b's  things,  and  wants  to  get  'em." 

"  Ah !'  said  Mr.  Gillis.  "  What  is  the  name 
of  the  lodger?" 

"  Mr.  Brown,"  said  the  boy. 

"  Brown  ?"  said  Mr.  Gillis.  "  Yes,  there  was 
such  a  lodger,  I  think;  but  I  don't  know  about 
his  things.  You  wait  here  a  moment  till  I  go 
and  ask  Mrs.  Gillis." 

i  Saying  this  Mr.  Gillis  left  the  room.  After 
about  fifteen  or  twenty  minutes  he  returned. 
\  "Well,  my  boy,"  said  he,  "there  are  some 
things  of  Mr.  Brown's  here  yet,  I  believe;  and 
vou  have  come  for  them?  Have  you  wag- 
on?" 


TTT'" 


T^O 


THE  CllYPTOGRAM. 


,,W 


'HE  CAHEFCLLY   INSTRUCTED   HIM   IN   THE  PART   HE   WAS   TO   PERFORM. 


"No.  I  only  come  to  see  if  they  were  here, 
and  to  get  your  bill." 

"And  vour  father  is  Mr.  Brown's  friend?" 

"Yes'r." 

"And  Mr.  Brown  wrote  to  him?" 

"Yes'r." 

"Well,  you  know  I  wouldn't  like  to  give  up 
the  things  on  an  uncertainty.  They  are  very 
valuable.  I  would  require  some  order  from 
vour  father. " 

"Yea'r." 

Mr.  Gillis  asked  a  number  of  questions  of  the 
boy,  to  which  he  responded  without  hesitation, 
and  then  left  the  room  again,  saying  that  he 
would  go  and  make  out  Mr.  Brown's  bill. 

lie  was  gone  a  long  time.  The  boy  amused 
himself  by  staring  at  the  things  in  the  room,  at  the 
ornaments,  and  pictures,  and  began  to  think  that 
Mr.  Gillis  was  never  coming  back,  when  at  last 
footsteps  were  heard  in  the  hall,  the  door  oi)ened, 
and  Mr.  Gillis  entered,  followed  by  two  other 
men.  One  of  these  men  bad  the  face  of  a  prize- 
fighter, or  a  ticket-of-leave  man,  with  abundance 
of  black  hair  and  l)eard  ;  his  eyes  were  black  and 
piercing,  and  his  face  was  the  same  whicb  has 
already  been  described  as  the  face  of  Mlack  Bill. 
But  he  was  respectably  dressed  in  black,  ho 


wore  a  beaver  hat,  and  had  lost  something  of  his 
desperate  air.  The  fact  is,  the  police  had  taken 
Black  Bill  into  their  employ,  and  he  was  doing 
very  well  in  his  new  occupation.  The  other  was 
a  sharp,  wirj'  man,  with  a  cunning  face  and  a 
restless,  fidgety  manner.  Both  he  and  Black 
Bill  looked  carefully  at  the  boy,  and  at  lengih 
the  sharp  man  spoke : 

"  You  young  rascal,  do  you  know  who  I  am  ?" 

The  boy  started  and  looked  aghast,  terrified 
by  such  an  address. 

"  No,  Sir,"'  he  whimpered. 

"Well,  I'm  Thomas  S.  Davis,  detective.  Do 
you  understand  what  that  means  ?" 

"  Yes  'r,"  said  the  boy,  whose  self-possession 
completely  vanished  at  so  formidable  an  an- 
nouncement. 

"Come  now,  young  fellow,"  said  Davis, 
"you've  got  to  own  up.     Who  are  you ?" 

"I'n  the  son  of  Mr.  B.  F.  Baker,  grocer, 
Black  wall,"  said  the  boy,  in  a  quick  monotone. 

"  What  street  ?" 

"  Queen  .Street,  No.  17,"  said  the  boy,    ... 

"  There  ain't  no  such  street." 

"There  is,  'cos  he  lives  there." 

"You  young  rascal,  dont  you  suppose  I 
know  ?" 


^•vF'y^Jfl^^''  ^  ■  ■^jTyw"' ' 


^  wt^mrm^^wii.iii/^m'fKimimmm'l^!'*    iH'PHIIIliW.IWJiffifipwpF 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


187 


"  Well,  I  oughter  know  the  place  where  I  was 
bred  and  bornd,"  said  the  boy. 

"  You're  a  young  scamp.  You  needn't  try  to 
come  it  over  me,  you  know.  Why,  I  know 
Bhickwall  by  heart.  There  isn't  such  ,\  street 
there.     Who  sent  you  here  ?" 

"Father." 

"What  for?" 

"  He  got  a  letter  from  a  man  as  used  to  stop 
here,  askin'  of  him  to  get  his  things  away." 

"  What  is  the  name  of  the  man  ?" 

"Mr.  Brown." 

"  Brown  ?" 

"Yes'r." 

"  Where  is  this  Mr.  Brown  now  ?" 

"In  Liverpool." 

"  How  did  he  get  there  ?" 

"He's  just  come  back  from  America." 

"See  here,  boy,  you've  got  to  own  up,"  said 
Davis,  suddenly.  "I'm  a  detective.  VVe  be- 
long to  the  police.  So  make  a  clean  breast  of 
it." 

"Oh,  Sir!"  said  the  boy,  in  terror. 

"Never  mind  'Oh,  Sir!'  but  own  up,"  said 
Davis.     "  You've  got  to  do  it. " 

"I  ain't  got  nothin'  to  own  up.  I'm  sure  I 
don't  see  why  you're  so  hard  on  a  poor  cove  as 
never  did  you  no  harm,  nor  nobody  else. " 

And  saying  this  the  boy  sniveled  violently. 

"I  s'pose  your  dear  mamma  dressed  you  up 
in  your  Sunday  clothes  to  come  here  ?"  said  the 
detective,  sneeringly. 

"No,  Sir,"  said  the  boy,  "she  didn't,  'cos 
she's  dead,  she  is." 

"Why  didn't  your  father  come  himself?" 

"  'Cos  he's  too  busy  in  his  shop." 

"  Did  you  ever  hear  the  name  of  this  Brown 
before  to-day  ?" 

"No,  Sir,  never  as  I  knows  on." 

"But  you  said  he  is  a  friend  of  your  father's." 

"So  he  is.  Sir." 

"And  you  never  heard  his  name  before?" 

"  Never,  Sir,  in  my  life,  Sir — not  this  Brown." 

'Is  your  father  a  religious  man  ?" 

"A  what.  Sir?" 

"A  religious  man." 

"Idunno,  Sir." 

" Does  he  go  to  church?" 

"  Oh,  yes  'r,  to  meetin'  on  Sundays." 

"What  meeting?" 

"Methodist,  Sir." 

"Where?" 

"At  No.  13  King  Street," said  the  boy,  with- 
out a  moment's  hesitation. 

"  You  young  jackass,"  said  Davis.  "  No.  13 
King  Street,  and  all  the  numbers  near  it  in 
Blackwall,  are  warehouses — what's  the  use  of 
trying  to  humbug  me  ?" 

"  Who's  a-tryin'  to  humbug  you?"  whimpered 
the  boy.  "  I  don't  remember  the  numbers.  It's 
somewhere  in  King  Street.    I  never  go  myself." 

"You  don't,  don't  you?" 

"No,  ^.ir." 

"Now,  see  here;,  my  bo}',"  said  Davis,  stern- 
ly, "  I  knew  you.  You  can't  ccme  it  over  me. 
You've  got  into  a  nice  mess,  you  have.  You've 
got  mixed  in  with  a  conspiracy,  and  the  law's 
goin'  to  take  hold  of  you  at  once  unless  you 
make  a  clean  breast  of  it." 

"Oh  Lord!"  cried  the  boy.  "Stop  that. 
"What  am  I  a-doin'  of?" 

"  Nonsense,  you  young  rascal !    Listen  to  me 


now,  and  answer  me.     Db  you  know  any  thing 
about  this  Brown  ?" 

"  No,  Sir.     Father  sent  me." 

"Well,  then,  let  me  tell  you  the  police  are 
after  him.  He's  afraid  to  come  here,  and  sent 
you.  Don't  you  go  and  get  mixed  up  witii  him. 
If  you  do,  it  'II  be  worse  for  you.  This  Brown 
is  the  biggest  villain  in  the  kingdom,  and  any 
man  that  catches  him  '11  make  his  blessed  for- 
tune. We're  on  his  tracks,  and  we're  bound  to 
follow  him  up.  So  tell  me  the  truth — where  is 
he  now?" 

"In  Liveipool,  Sir." 

' '  You  lie,  you  young  devil !  But,  if  you  don't 
own  up,  it  '11  be  worse  for  you." 

"  How's  a  poor  cove  like  me  to  know  ?"  cried 
the  boy.  "  I'm  the  son  of  a  honest  man,  and  I 
don't  know  any  thing  about  j-our  police." 

"You'll  kno."  1  blessed  sight  more  about  it 
before  you're  two  houi  s  older,  if  you  go  on  hum- 
buggin'  us  this  fashion,"  said  Davis,  sternly. 

"  I  ain't  a-humbuggin'. " 

"You  are — and  I  won't  stand  it.  Come  now. 
Brown  is  a  murderer,  do  you  hear?  Tiiere's  a 
reward  oft'ered  for  him.  He's  got  to  be  caught. 
You've  gone  and  mixed  yourself  up  with  this 
business,  and  you'll  never  get  out  of  the  scrape 
till  you  make  a  clean  breast  of  it.  'I'hat's  all 
bosh  about  your  father,  you  know." 

"It  ain't,"  said  the  boy,  obstinately. 

"Verj  .veil, then, "said Davis, rising.  "You've 
got  to  go  with  us.  We'll  go  first  to  Blackwall, 
and,  by  the  Lord,  if  we  can't  find  your  father, 
we'll  take  it  out  of  you.  You'll  be  put  in  the  jug 
for  ten  years,  and  you'll  have  to  tell  after  all. 
Come  along  now. " 

Davis  grasped  the  boy's  hand  tightly  and  took 
him  out  of  the  room.  A  cab  was  at  the  door. 
Davis,  Black  Bill,  and  the  boy  got  into  it  and 
drove  along  through  the  .streets.  The  boy  was 
silent  and  meditative.     At  last  he  spoke : 

"  It's  no  use  goin'  to  Blackwall,"  said  he,  sulk- 
ily.    "  I  ain't  got  no  father." 

"Didn't  I  know  that?"  said  Davis.  "You 
were  lying,  you  know.  Are  you  goin'  to  own 
up?" 

"I  s'pose  I  must." 

"  Of  course  you  must." 

"  Well,  will  you  let  me  go  if  I  tell  you  all  ?" 

"  If  you  tell  all  we'll  let  you  go  sometime,  but 
we  will  want  you  for  a  while  yet." 

"Well,"  said  the  boy,  "I  can't  help  it.  I 
s'pose  I've  got  to  tell." 

"t)f  course  you  have.  And  now,  first,  who 
sent  you  here?" 

"  Mr.  Brown." 

"Ah!  Mr.  Brown  himself.  Where  did  you 
see  him  ?" 

"In  the  Strand." 

"Did  you  ever  see  him  before?" 

"  No.     He  picked  me  up,  and  sent  me  here." 

"  Do  vou  know  where  he  is  lodging?" 

"Yes"'r." 

"Where?" 

"  At  the  Strand  Hotel.  He  took  me  into  his 
room  and  told  me  what  I  was  to  do.  I  didn't 
know  any  thing  about  him  or  his  business.  I 
only  went  on  an  errand. " 

"Of  course  you  did,"  said  Davis,  encourag- 
ingly. "And,  if  you  tell  the  truth,  you'll  be  all 
right;  but  if  you  try  to  humbug  us,"  he  added, 
sternly,  "  it  '11  be  the  worse  for  you.    Don't  you 


"TT^^n'j'Wjrjrjf 


188 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


go  and  mix  yourself  up  in  a  murder  ciise.  I 
don't  want  uny  tiling  more  of  you  tiian  for  you 
to  take  us  to  this  man's  room.  You  were  to  see 
him  again  to-day — of  course." 

"Yes'r." 

"At  what  time?" 

"Eight  o'clock." 

"Well — it's  now  four.  You  take  us  to  his 
room,  and  we'll  wait  there. " 

The  hoy  assented,  and  the  cab  drove  off  for 
the  Strand  Hotel. 

The  crowd  in  front  of  the  hotel  was  so  dense 
that  it  was  some  time  before  the  cab  could  ap- 
proach the  entrance.  At  last  they  reached  it 
and  got  out,  Hlack  liill  first,  and  then  Davis, 
who  still  held  the  hand  of  the  boy  in  a  tight 
grasj),  for  fear  that  he  might  try  to  esi'ape. 
They  then  worked  their  way  through  the  crowd 
and  entered  the  hotel.  Davis  said  something  to 
the  clerk,  and  then  they  went  up  stairs,  guided 
by  the  boy  to  Gualtier's  room. 

On  entering  it  no  one  was  there.  Davis  went 
into  the  adjoining  bedroom,  but  found  it  empty. 
A  carpet-bag  was  lying  on  the  floor  open.  ()n 
examining  it  Davis  found  only  a  shaving-case 
and  some  changes  of  linen. 

"  We'll  wait  here,"  said  Davis  to  Black  Bill, 
as  he  re-entered  the  sitting-room.  "He's  out 
now.  He'll  be  back  at  eight  to  see  the  boy. 
We've  got  him  at  last." 

And  then  Black  Bill  spoke  for  the  first  time 
since  the  boy  had  seen  him.  A  grim  smile 
spread  over  his  Iiard  features. 

"  Yes,"  said  he,  "  we'ye  got  him  at  last!" 


CHAPTER  LVI. 

AT     HIS     BEDSIDE. 

Meanwhile  Hilda's  position  was  a  hard  one. 
Days  passed  on.  The  one  who  came  to  act  as 
a  lun-se  was  herself  stricken  down,  as  she  had  al- 
ready been  twice  before.  They  carried  her  away 
to  another  room,  and  Gretchen  devoted  herself 
to  her  care.  Delirium  came  on,  and  all  the  past 
lived  again  in  the  fever-tossed  mind  of  the  suf- 
ferer. Unconscious  of  the  real  world  in  which 
she  lay,  she  wandered  in  a  world  of  phantoms, 
where  the  well-remembered  forms  of  her  past  life 
surrounded  her.  8ome  deliriums  are  pleasant. 
All  depend  upon  the  ruling  feelings  of  the  one 
upon  whom  it  is  fixed.  But  here  the  ruling  feel- 
ing of  Hilda  was  not  of  that  kind  which  could 
bring  happiness.  Her  distracted  mind  wandered 
again  through  those  scenes  through  which  she 
had  passed.  Her  life  at  Chetwynde,  with  all  its 
later  horrors  and  anxieties,  came  back  before  her. 
Again  and  again  the  vision  of  the  dying  Earl  tor- 
mented her.  What  siie  said  these  foreign  nurses 
heard,  hut  understood  not.  They  soothed  her 
ns  best  they  might,  and  stood  aghast  at  her  suf- 
ferings, but  were  not  able  to  do  any  thing  to  al- 
leviate them.  Most  of  all,  however,  her  mind 
turned  to  the  occurrences  of  the  last  few  days 
and  weeks.  Again  she  was  flying  to  the  bedside 
of  Lord  Chetwynde ;  again  the  anguish  of  sus- 
pense devoured  her,  as  she  struggled  against 
weakness  to  reai;h  him  ;  and  again  she  felt  over- 
whelmed by  the  shock  of  the  first  sight  of  the 
sick  man.  on  whom  she  thought  that  she  saw  the 
stamp  of  death. 


Meanwhile,  as  Hilda  lay  senseless,  Lord  Chet- 
wynde hovered  between  life  and  death.  The 
physician  who  had  attended  him  came  in  on  the 
morning  after  Hilda's  arrival,  and  learned  from 
the  nurse  that  Lady  Chetwynde  had  come  sud- 
denly, more  dead  than  alive,  and  was  htrsclf 
struck  down  by  fever.  She  had  watched  him  nil 
night  from  her  own  couch,  until  at  last  she  had 
lost  consciousness  ;  but  all  her  soul  seemed  beni 
on  one  thing,  and  that  was  that  a  certain  medi- 
cine should  be  administered  regularly  to  Lin-d 
Cheitwynde.  The  doctor  asked  to  see  it.  lie 
smelled  it  and  tasted  it.  An  expression  of  horror 
passed  over  his  face. 

"My  God  !"  he  murmured.  "I  did  not  dare 
to  suspect  it!     It  must  be  so!" 

"Where  is  Lord  Chetwynde's  valet?"  he 
asked  at  length,  after  a  thoughtful  pause. 

"  I  don't  know.  Sir,"  said  the  lun-se. 

"  He  always  is  here.     I  don't  see  him  now." 

"  I  haven't  seen  him  since  Lady  Chetwynde's 
arrival. " 

"  Did  my  lady  see  him?" 

"I  think  she  did,  Sir." 

"  You  don't  know  what  passed  ?" 

"No,  Sir.  Excejit  this,  that  the  vnlet  hurried 
out,  looking  very  pale,  and  has  not  been  back 
since." 

"Ah!"  murmured  the  doctor  to  himself. 
"She  has  suspected  something,  and  has  come 
on.  The  valet  has  fled.  Could  this  scoundrel 
have  been  the  guilty  one  ?  Who  else  could  it  be  ? 
And  he  has  fled.  I  never  liked  his  looks.  He 
had  the  face  of  a  vampire. " 

The  doctor  took  away  some  of  the  medicine 
with  him,  and  at  the  same  time  he  took  with 
him  one  of  the  glasses  which  stood  on  a  table 
near  the  bed.  Some  liquid  remained  in  it.  He 
took  these  away  to  subject  them  to  chemical 
analysis.  The  result  of  that  analysis  served  to 
confirm  his  suspicions.  When  he  next  came  he 
directed  the  nurse  to  administer  the  antidote 
regularly,  and  left  another  mixture  also. 

Lord  Chetwynde  lay  between  life  and  death. 
At  the  last  verge  of  mortal  weakness,  it  would 
have  needed  but  a  slight  thing  to  send  him  out 
of  life  forever.  The  only  encouraging  thing 
about  him  for  many  days  was  that  he  did  not 
get  worse.  From  this  fact  the  doctor  gained  en- 
couragement, though  he  still  felt  that  the  case 
was  desperate.  What  suspicions  he  had  formed 
he  kept  to  himself. 

Hilda,  meanwhile,  prostrated  by  this  new  at- 
tack, lay  helpless,  consumed  by  the  fierce  fever 
which  rioted  in  all  her  veins.    Fiercer  and  fiercer 
it  grew,  until  she  reached  a  critical  point,  where 
her  condition  was  more  perilous  than  that  of 
Lord  Chetwynde  himself.     But,  in  spite  of  all 
that   she   had    suffered,    her    constitution   was 
strong.    Tender  hands  were  at  her  service,  kind- 
ly hearts  sympathized  with  her,  and  the  doctor, 
whose  nature  was  stirred  to  its  depths  by  pity 
and  compassion  for  this  beautiful  stranger,  who 
had  thus  fallen  under  the  power  of  so  mysterious 
a  calamity,  was  unremitting  in  his  attentions. 
I  The  crisis  of  the  fever  came,  and  alLthat  night, 
!  while  it  lasted,  he  staid  with  her,  listening  to  her 
i  disconnected  ravings,  and  understanding  enough 
j  of  them  to  perceive  that  her  fancy  was  bringing 
back  before  her  that  journey  from  England  to 
I  Lausanne,  whose  fatigues  and  anxieties  had  le- 
I  duced  her  to  this. 


.1,1  uwuiii|naf^>vvm«ipa 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


189 


"My  God !"  cried  the  doctor,  ns  s«me  sharper 
lamentation  burst  from  Hilda ;  "it  would  be  bet- 
ter for  Lord  Chetwynde  to  die  than  to  survive  a 
wife  like  this!" 

With  the  morning  the  crisis  had  passed,  and, 
thanks  to  tiie  doctor's  care,  the  result  was  fuvor- 
:ible.  Hilda  fell  into  a  profound  sleep,  but  the 
fever  had  left  her,  and  the  change  was  for  the 
better. 

When  the  doctor  returned  once  more  he  found 
her  awake,  without  fever,  yet  very  feeble. 

"  My  lady," said  he,  "you  must  be  more  care- 
ful of  yourself  for  the  sake  of  others.  Lord  Chet- 
wynde  is  weak  yet,  and  though  his  symptoms  are 
favorable,  yet  he  requires  the  greatest  ca.3. " 

"  And  do  you  have  hope  of  him?'"  asked  Hilda, 
eagerly.    This  was  the  one  thought  of  her  mind. 

"I  do  have  hope,"snid  the  doctor. 

Hilda  looked  at  him  gratefully. 

"At  present,"  said  the  doctor,  "you  must  not 
think  or  talk  about  any  thing.  Above  all,  you 
must  restrain  your  feelings.  It  is  your  anxiety 
iibout  Lord  Chetwynde  that  is  killing  you.  Save 
yourself  for  his  sake. " 

"But  may  I  not  be  carried  into  his  room?" 
l)leaded  Hilda,  in  imploring  tones. 

"No;  not  to-day.  Leave  it  to  me.  Believe 
me,  my  lady,  I  am  anxious  for  his  recovery  and 
for  yours.  His  recovery  depends  most  of  all 
upon  you." 

"  Yes,"  said  Hilda,  in  a  faint  voice;  "far more 
than  you  know.  There  is  a  medicine  which  he 
must  have." 

"  He  has  been  taking  it  through  all  his  sick- 
ness. I  have  not  allowed  that  to  be  neglected," 
said  the  doctor. 

"You  have  administered  that?" 

"  Most  certainly.     It  is  his  only  hope." 

"  And  do  you  understand  what  it  is  ?" 

"Of  course.  More — I  understand  what  it  in- 
volves. But  do  not  fear.  The  danger  has  passed 
now.  Do  not  let  the  anguish  of  such  a  discovery 
tonnent  you.  The  danger  has  passed.  He  is 
weak  now,  and  it  is  only  his  weakness  that  I  have 
to  contend  with." 

"You  understand  all,  then?"  repeated  Hilda. 

"  Yes,  all.  But  you  must  not  speak  about  it 
now.  Have  confidence  in  me.  Tlie  fact  that  I 
understand  the  disease  will  show  you  that  I 
know  how  to  deal  with  it.  It  baffled  me  before ; 
but,  as  soon  as  I  saw  the  medicine  that  you  gave, 
I  suspected  and  understood." 

Hilda  looked  at  him  with  awfid  inquiry. 

"Be  calm,  my  lady,"  said  tiie  doctor,  in  a 
sympathetic  voice.  "The  worst  is  over.  You 
have  saved  him." 

"  Say  that  again,"  said  Hilda.  "  Have  I,  in- 
deed, done  any  thing?  Have  I,  indeed,  saved 
him?" 

"Most  undoubtedly.  Had  it  not  been  for 
you  he  would  by  this  time  have  been  in  the 
other  world, "  said  the  doctor,  solemnly. 

Hilda  drew  a  deep  sigh. 

"That  ;s  some  consolation,"  she  said,  in  a 
moumfid  voice. 

"  You  are  too  weak  now  to  talk  about  this. 
Let  me  assure  you  again  that  you  have  every 
reason  for  hope.  In  a  few  days  you  may  be  re- 
moved to  his  apartment,  where  your  love  and 
devotion  will  soon  meet  with  their  reward." 

"Tell  me  one  thing," asked  Hilda,  earnestly. 
"  Is  Lord  Chetwynde  still  delirious?" 


"Yes — but  only  slightly  so.  It  is  more  like 
a  quiet  sleep  than  any  thing  else ;  and,  while  he 
sleeps,  the  medicines  are  performing  their  aj)pro- 
priate  effect  upon  him.  Every  thing  is  progress- 
ing favorably,  and  when  he  regains  iiis  senses  he 
will  be  changed  very  much  for  the  better.  But 
now,  my  lady,  you  must  think  no  more  about  it. 
Try  and  get  some  sleep.  Be  as  calm  in  your 
mind  as  you  can  until  to-morrow." 

And  with  these  words  the  doctor  left. 

On  the  following  day  he  came  again,  but  re- 
fused to  speak  on  the  subject  of  Lord  (^het- 
wynde's  illness;  he  merely  assured  Hilda  that 
he  was  still  in  an  encouraging  condition,  and 
told  her  that  she  herself  must  keep  calm,  so  that 
her  recovery  might  be  more  rapid.  For  several 
days  he  forbade  a  renewal  of  the  subject  of  con- 
versation, with  the  intention,  as  he  said,  of  spar- 
ing her  every  thing  which  might  agitate  her. 
Whether  his  precautions  were  wise  or  not  may 
be  doubted.  Hilda  sometimes  troubled  herself 
with  fancies  that  the  doctor  might,  perhaps,  sus- 
pect all  the  truth  ;  and  though  she  succeeded  in 
dismissing  the  idea  as  absurd,  yet  the  trouble 
which  she  ex])erienced  from  it  was  sufficient  to 
agitate  her  in  many  ways.  That  fever-haunted 
land  of  delirium,  out  of  which  she  had  of  late 
emerged,  was  still  near  enough  to  throw  over  her 
soul  its  dark  and  terrific  shadows.  It  needed 
but  a  slight  word  from  the  doctor,  or  from  any 
one  else,  to  revive  the  accursed  memories  of  an 
accursed  past. 

Several  days  passed  away,  and,  in  spite  of  her 
anxieties,  she  grew  stronger.  The  longing  which 
she  felt  to  see  Lord  (^hetwynde  gave  strength  to 
her  resolution  to  grow  stronger ;  and,  as  once 
before,  her  ardent  will  seemed  to  sway  the  func- 
tions of  the  body.  The  doctor  noticed  this 
steady  increase  of  strength  one  day,  and  prom- 
ised her  that  on  the  following  day  she  should  be 
removed  to  Lord  Chetwyndes  room.  She  i"e- 
ceived  this  intelligence  with  the  deepest  grati- 
tude. 

"  Lord  Chetwynde's  symptoms,"  continued  the 
doctor,  "are  still  favorable.  He  is  no  longer  in 
delirium,  but  in  a  kind  of  gentle  sleep,  which  is 
not  so  well  defined  as  to  be  a  stupor,  but  is  yet 
stronger  than  an  ordinary  sleep.  The  medicine 
which  is  being  administered  has  this  eflfect. 
Perhaps  you  are  aware  of  this?" 

Hilda  bowed. 

"I  was  told  so." 

"  Will  you  allow  me  to  ask  how  it  was  that 
you  obtained  that  particular  medicine  ?"  he  ask- 
ed.    "Do  you  know  what  it  involves ?" 

"  Yes,"  said  Hilda  ;  "  it  is  only  too  well  known 
to  me.     The  horror  of  this  well-nigh  killed  me." 

"  How  did  you  discover  it — or  how  did  you 
suspect  it  ?" 

Hilda  answered,  without  a  moment's  hesita- 
tion : 

"The  suddenness  of  Lord  Chetwynde's  dis- 
ease alarmed  me.  His  valet  wrote  about  his 
symptoms,  and  these  terrified  me  still  more.  I 
hurried  up  to  London  and  showed  his  report  to 
a  leading  London  physician.  He  looked  shock- 
ed, asked  me  much  about  Lord  Chetwynde's 
health,  and  gave  me  this  medicine.  I  suspected 
from  his  manner  what  he  feared,  though  he  did 
not  express  his  fear  in  words.  In  short,  it  seem- 
ed to  me,  from  what  he  said,  that  this  medicine 
was  the  antidote  to  some  poison." 


190 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


"You  are  right,"  said  the  doctor,  solemnly; 
and  then  he  remained  silent  for  a  long  time. 

"  Do  you  8U»[)ect  any  one  ?"  ho  asked  at  last. 

Hilda  sighed,  and  slowly  said : 

"Yes— I  do." 

•'Who  is  the  one?" 

She  |)ansed.  In  that  moment  there  were 
struggling  within  her  thoughts  wliich  the  doctor 
did  not  imagine.  tShouId  she  be  so  base  as  to 
siiy  what  was  in  her  mind,  or  should  she  not? 
Tiiat  was  the  ((uestion.  IJut  rapidly  she  pushed 
aside  all  scruples,  and  in  a  low,  stern  voice  she 
said: 

"I  suspect  his  valet." 

"I  thought  so,"  said  the  doctor.  "It  could 
have  been  no  other.  But  he  must  have  had  a 
motive.  Can  you  imagine  what  motive  there 
could  have  been  ?" 

"I  know  it  only  too  well,"  said  Hilda, 
"  though  I  did  not  think  of  this  till  it  was  too 
late.  He  was  injured,  or  fancied  himself  injured, 
by  Lord  Chetwynde,  and  ids  motive  was  venge- 
ance. " 

"And  where  is  he  now?"  asked  the  doctor. 

"  He  was  thunder-struck  by  my  appearance. 
He  saw  me  nearly  dead.  He  helped  me  up  to 
his  master's  room,  l  charged  him  with  his 
crime.  He  tried  to  falter  out  a  denial.  In  vain. 
He  was  crushed  beneath  the  overwlielming  sur- 
prise. He  hurried  out  abruptly,  and  has  fled,  I 
suppose  forever,  to  some  distant  country.  As 
for  me,  I  forgot  all  about  him,  and  fainted  away 
by  the  bedside  of  my  husband." 

The  doctor  sighed  heavily,  and  wiped  a  tear 
from  his  eye. 

He  had  never  known  so  sad  a  case  as  this. 


CHAPTER  LVII. 

BACK  TO   LIFE. 

On  the  next  day,  according  to  the  doctor's 
promise,  Hilda  was  taken  into  Lord  Chetwynde's 
room.  She  was  much  stronger,  and  the  new- 
found hope  which  she  possessed  of  itself  gave  her 
increased  vigor.  fShe  was  carried  in,  and  gently 
laid  upon  the  sofa,  which  had  been  rolled  up 
close  by  the  bedside  of  Lord  Chetwynde.  Her 
firet  eager  look  showed  her  plainly  that  during 
the  interval  which  had  elapsed  since  she  saw  him 
last  a  great  improvement  had  taken  place.  He 
was  still  unconscious,  but  his  unconsciousness 
was  that  of  a  deep,  sweet  sleep,  in  which  pleasant 
dreams  had  taken  the  place  of  delirious  fancies. 
His  face  had  lost  its  aspect  of  horror ;  there  was 
no  longer  to  be  seen  the  stamp  of  death  ;  the  lips 
were  full  and  red ;  the  cheeks  were  no  longer 
sunken ;  the  dark  circles  had  passed  away  from 
around  the  eyes ;  and  the  eyes  themselves  were 
now  closed,  as  in  sleep,  instead  of  having  that  half- 
open  appearance  which  before  was  so  terrible 
and  so  deathlike.  The  chill  damp  had  left  his 
forehead.  It  was  the  face  of  one  who  is  sleeping 
in  pleasant  slumber,  instead  of  the  face  of  one 
who  was  sinking  rapidly  into  the  realm  where 
the  sleep  is  eternal.  All  this  Hilda  saw  at  the 
first  glance. 

Her  heart  thrilled  within  her  at  the  rapture 
of  that  discovery.  The  danger  was  over.  The 
crisis  had  passed.  Now,  wliether  he  lay  there 
for  a  longer  or  a  shorter  period,  his  recovery  at 


last  was  certain,  as  far  as  any  thing  human  and 
mortal  can  be  certain.  Now  her  eyes,  as  they 
turned  toward  him,  devoured  Iiim  with  all  their 
old  eagerness.  Since  she  had  seeu  him  last  she 
too  had  gone  down  to  the  gates  of  death,  and 
she  had  come  back  again  to  take  her  place  at 
his  side.  A  strange  joy  and  a  peace  that  passed 
all  understanding  arose  within  her.  She  sent 
the  nurse  out  of  the  room,  and  once  more  was 
alone  with  this  man  whom  she  loved.  His  face 
was  turned  toward  her.  She  flung  her  arms 
about  him  in  passionate  eagerness,  and,  weak  as 
she  was,  she  bent  down  her  lips  to  his.  Uncon- 
scious he  lay  there,  but  the  touch  of  his  lips  was 
now  no  longer  like  the  touch  of  death. 

She  herself  seemed  to  gain  new  strength  from 
the  sight  of  him  as  he  thus  lay  in  that  manly 
beauty,  which,  banished  for  a  time,  had  now  re- 
turned again.  She  lay  there  on  her  sofa  by  his 
bedside,  and  held  his  hand  in  both  of  hers.  She 
watciied  his  face,  and  scanned  every  one  of  those 
noble  lineaments,  which  now  lay  before  her  with 
something  like  their  natural  beauty.  Hopes 
arose  within  her  which  brought  new  strength 
every  moment.  This  was  the  life  which  she  had 
saved.  She  forgot — did  not  choose  to  think — that 
she  had  doomed  this  life  to  death,  and  chose 
only  to  think  that  she  had  saved  it  from  death. 
Thus  she  thought  that,  when  Lord  Chetwynde 
came  forth  out  of  his  senselessness,  she  would 
be  the  first  object  that  would  meet  his  gaze,  and 
he  would  know  that  he  had  been  saved  from 
death  by  her. 

Here,  then,  she  took  up  her  place  by  his  bed- 
side, and  saw  how  every  day  he  grew  better. 
Eveiy  day  she  herself  regained  her  old  strength, 
and  could  at  length  walk  about  the  room,  though 
she  was  still  thin  and  feeble.  So  the  time  ]iass- 
ed ;  and  in  this  room  the  one  who  first  escaped 
from  the  jaws  of  death  devoted  herself  to  the  task 
of  assisting  the  other. 

At  last,  one  morning  as  the  sun  rose.  Lord 
Chetwynde  waked.  He  looked  around  the  room. 
He  lifted  himself  up  on  his  elbow,  and  saw  Hil- 
da asleep  on  the  sofa  near  his  bed.  He  felt  be- 
wildered at  this  strange  and  unexpected  figure. 
How  did  she  get  here?  A  dim  remembrance 
of  his  long  sickness  suggested  itself,  and  he  had 
a  vague  idea  of  this  figure  attending  upon  him. 
But  the  ideas  and  remembrances  were  too  shad- 
owy to  be  grasped.  The  room  he  remembered 
partially,  for  this  was  the  room  in  which  he  had 
sunk  down  into  this  last  sickness  at  Lausanne. 
But  the  sleeping  form  on  the  sofa  puzzled  him. 
He  had  seen  her  last  at  Chetwynde.  What  was 
she  doing  here?  He  scanned  her  narrowly, 
thinking  that  he  might  be  mistaken  from  some 
chance  resemblance.  A  further  examination, 
however,  showed  that  he  was  correct.  Yes,  this 
was  "his  wife,"  yet  how  changed!  Pale  as 
death  was  that  face ;  those  features  were  thin 
and  attenuated ;  the  eyes  were  closed  ;  the  hair 
hung  in  black  masses  round  the  marble  brow ; 
an  ex))ression  of  sadness  dwelt  there;  and  in 
her  fitful,  byoken  slumber  she  sighed  heavily. 
He  looked  at  her  long  and  steadfastly,  and  then 
sank  wearily  down  upon  the  pillows,  but  still 
kept  his  eyes  fixed  upon  this  woman  whom  he 
saw  there.  How  did  she  get  here  ?  What  was 
she  doing?  What  did  it  all  mean?  His  re- 
membrance cotdd  not  supply  him  with  facts 
which  might  answer  this  question.     He  could 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


191 


not  understand,  and  so  he  lay  there  in  bewilder- 
ment, making  feeble  eotijectures. 

When  Hilda  opened  her  eyes  the  first  thing 
that  she  saw  was  the  face  of  Lord  C/hetwynde, 
whoso  eyes  were  fixed  upon  hers.  She  started 
and  looked  confused ;  but  amidst  her  confusion 
an  expression  of  joy  darted  across  her  face, 
which  WHS  evident  and  manifest  to  Lord  Chet- 
wyndo.  It  was  joy — ea^er,  vivid,  and  intense ; 
joy  mingled  with  surprise ;  and  her  eyes  at  last 
rested  on  him  with  mute  inquiry. 

"Are  you  at  last  awake,  my  lord?"  she  mur- 
mured.    "Are  you  out  of  your  stupor  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so,"  said  Lord  Chetwynde.  "  But 
I  do  not  understand  this.  I  think  I  must  be  in 
Lausanne. " 

"  Yes,  you  are  in  Lausanne,  my  lord,  at  the 
Hotel  Gibbon." 

"The  Hotel  Gibbon?"  jepeated  Lord  Chet- 
wynde. 

"  Yes.     Has  your  memory  returned  yet  ?" 

"Only  partially.  I  think  I  remember  the 
journey  here,  but  not  very  well.  I  hardly  know 
where  I  came  from.  It  must  have  been  Baden. " 
And  ho  tried,  but  in  vain,  to  recollect. 

"You  went  from  Frankfort  to  Baden,  thence 
to  Munich,  and  from  Munich  you  came  here." 

"Yes,"  said  Lord  Chetwynde,  slowly,  as  he 
began  to  recollect.  "You  are  rigiit.  I  begin 
to  remember.  But  I  have  been  ill,  and  I  was  ill 
at  all  these  pl.ices.    How  long  have  I  been  here  V" 

"Five  weeks." 

"Good  God!"  cried  Lord  Chetwynde.  "Is 
it  possible  ?  I  must  have  been  senseless  all  the 
time." 

"  Yes,  this  is  the  first  time  that  you  have  come 
to  your  senses,  my  lord. " 

"  I  can  scarcely  remember  any  thing.'" 

"Will  you  take  your  medicine  now,  my 
lord?" 

"My  medicine?" 

"Yes,"  said  Hilda,  sitting  up  and  taking  a 
vial  from  the  table;  "the  doctor  ordered  this 
to  be  given  to  you  when  you  came;  out  of  your 
stupor." 

"Where  is  my  nurse  ?"  asked  Lord  Chetwynde, 
abruptly,  ofter  a  short  but  thoughtful  silence. 

"  She  is  here,  my  lord.  She  wants  to  do  your 
bidding.     I  am  your  nurse." 

"You!" 

"Yes,  my  lord.  And  now — do  not  speak, 
but  take  your  medicine,"  said  Hilda;  and  she 
poured  out  the  mixture  into  a  wine-glass  and 
handed  it  to  him. 

He  took  it  mechanically,  and  without  a  word, 
and  then  his  head  fell  back,  and  he  lay  in  silence 
for  a  long  time,  trying  to  recall  his  scattered 
thoughts.  While  he  thus  lay  Hilda  reclined  on 
the  sofa  in  perfect  silence,  motionless  yet  watch- 
ful, wondering  what  he  was  thinking  about,  and 
waiting  for  him  to  speak.  She  did  not  venture 
to  interrupt  him,  although  she  perceived  plainly 
that,  he  was  fully  awake.  She  chose  rather  to 
leave  him  to  his  own  thoughts,  and  to  rest  her 
fate  upon  the  course  which  tiiose  thoughts  might 
take.     At  last  the  silence  was  broken. 

"I  have  been  very  ill?"  he  said  at  last,  in- 
quiringly. 

"Yes,  my  lord,  very  ill.  You  have  been 
down  to  the  very  borders  of  the  grave. " 

"Yes,  it  must  have  been  severe.  I  felt  it 
coming  on  when  I  arrived  in  France,"  he  mur- 


mured; "I  remember  now.     But  how  did  you 
hear  about  it  ?" 

"Your  valet  telegraphed.  He  was  frightened," 
said  she,  "and  sent  for  me." 

"  Ah  ?"  said  Lord  Chetwynde. 

Hilda  said  nothing  more  on  that  subject.  She 
would  wait  for  another  and  a  better  time  to  tell 
him  about  that.  The  story  of  her  devotion  and 
of  her  sufi'ering  might  yet  be  made  known  to 
him,  but  not  now,  when  he  had  but  partly  re- 
covered from  his  delirium. 

Little  more  was  said.  In  about  an  hour  the 
nurse  came  in  and  sat  near  him.  After  some 
time  the  doctor  came  and  congratulated  him. 

"  Let  me  congratulate  you,  my  lord,"  said  he, 
"on  your  favorable  condition.  You  owe  your 
life  to  Lady  (Mietwynde,  whose  devotion  has  sur- 
passed any  thing  that  I  have  ever  seen.  She  has 
done  every  thing — I  have  done  nothing." 

Lord  Chetwynde  made  some  commonplace 
compliment  to  his  skill,  and  then  asked  liim  how 
long  it  would  be  before  he  might  recover. 

"That  depends  upon  circumstances," said  the 
doctor.  "Rest  and  quiet  are  now  the  chief 
things  which  are  needed.  Do  not  be  too  impa- 
tient, my  lord.  Trust  to  these  things,  and  rely 
upon  the  watchful  care  of  Lady  Chetwynde." 

Lord  Chetwynde  said  nothing.  To  Hilda,  who 
had  listened  eagerly  to  this  conversation,  tliougli 
she  lay  with  closed  eyes,  his  silence  was  per|jlcx- 
ing.  She  could  not  tell  whether  he  had  softened 
toward  her  or  not.  A  great  fear  arose  within 
her  that  all  her  labor  might  have  i)een  in  vain ; 
but  her  matchless  patience  came  to  her  rescue. 
She  would  wait — she  would  wait — she  should  at 
last  gain  the  reward  of  her  patient  waiting. 

The  doctor,  after  fully  attending  to  Lord  Chet- 
wynde, turned  to  her. 

"You  are  weak,  my  lady,"  he  said,  with  re- 
spectful sympathy,  and  full  of  i)ity  for  this  de- 
voted wife,  who  seemed  to  him  only  to  live  in 
her  husband's  presence.  "You  must  take  more 
care  of  yourself  for  liis  sake." 

Hilda  murmured  some  inarticulate  words,  and 
the  doctor,  after  some  further  directions,  with- 
drew. 

Days  passed  on.  Lord  Chetwynde  grew  stron- 
ger every  day.  Ho  saw  Hilda  as  his  chief  at- 
tendant and  most  devoted  nurse.  He  marked 
her  pale  face,  her  wan  features,  and  the  traces  of 
suffering  which  still  remained  visible.  He  saw 
that  all  this  had  been  done  for  his  sake.  Once, 
when  she  was  absent  taking  some  short  rest,  he 
had  missed  that  instant  attention  wliich  she  had 
shown.  With  a  sick  man's  impatience,  he  was 
troubled  by  the  clumsiness  of  the  hired  nurse, 
and  contrasted  it  with  Hilda's  instant  readiness, 
and  gentle  touch,  and  soft  voice  of  love. 

At  last,  one  day  when  Hilda  was  giving  him 
some  medicine,  the  vial  dropped  from  her  hands, 
and  she  sank  down  senseless  by  his  bedside. 
She  was  carried  away,  and  it  was  long  before 
she  came  to  herself. 

"  You  must  be  careful  of  your  lady,  my  lord," 
said  the  doctor,  after  he  had  seen  her.  "She 
has  worn  herself  out  for  you,  and  will  die  some 
day  by  your  bedside.  Never  have  I  seen  such 
tenderness,  and  such  fond  devotion.  She  is  the 
one  who  has  saved  you  from  death.  She  is  now 
giving  herself  to  death  to  insure  your  recovery. 
Watch  over  her.  Do  not  let  her  sacrifice  herself 
now.     The  time  has  come  when  she  can  8par« 


M 


19S 


THE  CKYrTOGKAM. 


herself.  Stircly  now,  nt  lust,  there  ought  to  be 
itome  |ienru  and  rest  for  tlii's  noblc-hciirtcU,  this 
gentle,  this  loving,  this  devoted  Indy !" 

Ami  as  all  Hilda's  devotion  came  before  the 
mind  of  this  tender-hearted  pliysician  he  had  to 
wii)e  away  his  tears,  and  turn  away  his  head  to 
I'onceul  his  emotion. 

But  his  words  sank  deep  into  Lord  Clict- 
wvnde's  soul. 


CHAPTER  LVHI. 


AN   EXPLANATION. 


Time  passed  away,  and  Lord  Chetwynde  stead- 
ily recovered.  Hilda  also  j^rew  stronger,  and 
sometiiing  like  her  fonner  vigor  began  to  come 
back.  Nhe  was  able,  in  spite  of  her  own  weak- 
ness, to  keep  up  her  position  as  nurse ;  and  when 
the  doctor  remonstrated  she  declared,  piteously, 
that  Lord  Chetwynde's  bedside  was  the  place 
where  she  coidd  gain  the  most  benefit,  and  that 
to  banish  her  from  it  would  bo  to  doom  her  to 
death.-  Lord  Chetwynde  was  peijilexed  by  this 
<levotion,  yet  he  would  not  have  been  human  if 
he  had  not  been  affected  by  it. 

As  he  recovered,  the  one  (juestion  before  his 
mind  was,  what  should  he  do?  The  business 
with  reference  to  the  payment  of  that  money 
which  General  Pomeroy  had  advanced  was  ar- 
ranged before  he  left  England.  It  was  this 
which  had  occupied  so  much  of  his  thoughts. 
All  was  arranged  with  his  solicitors,  and  nothing 
remained  for  him  to  do.  He  had  come  to  the 
Continent  without  any  well-defined  plans,  mere- 
ly in  search  after  relaxation  and  distraction  of 
mind.  His  eventful  illness  had  brought  other 
things  before  him,  the  most  prominent  thing 
among  which  was  the  extraordinary  devotion  of 
this  woman,  from  whom  he  had  been  planning 
an  eternal  separation.  He  could  not  now  accuse 
her  of  baseness.  Whatever  she  might  once  have 
done  she  had  surely  atoned  for  during  those 
hours  when  she  stood  by  his  bedside  till  she  her- 
self fell  senseless,  as  he  had  seen  her  fall.  It 
would  have  been  but  a  common  generosity  which 
would  have  attributed  good  motives  to  her ;  and 
he  could  not  help  regarding  her  as  full  of  devo- 
tion to  himself. 

Under  these  circumstances  it  became  a  very 
troublesome  question  to  know  what  he  was  to 
do.  Where  was  he  to  go?  Should  he  loiter 
iibout  the  Continent  as  he  once  proposed  ?  But 
then,  he  was  under  obligations  to  this  devoted 
woman,  who  had  done  so  much  for  him.  What 
was  he  to  do  with  regard  to  her  ?  Could  he  send 
her  home  coldly,  without  a  word  of  gratitude,  or 
without  one  sign  expressive  of  that  thankfulness 
whicli  any  human  being  would  feel  under  such  cir- 
cumstances? He  could  not  do  that.  He  must  do 
or  say  something  expressive  of  his  sense  of  obli- 
gation. To  do  otherwise— to  leave  her  abruptly 
— would  be  brutal.  What  could  he  do?  He 
could  not  go  back  and  live  with  her  at  Chet- 
wynde. ihere  was  another,  whose  image  filled 
all  his  heart,  and  the  memory  of  whose  looks 
and  words  made  all  other  things  unattractive. 
Had  it  not  been  for  this,  he  must  have  yielded  to 
pity,  if  not  to  love.  Had  it  nbt  been  for  this,  he 
would  have  spoken  tender  words  to  that  slender, 
white-faced  woman  who,  with  her  imploring  eyes, 
hovered  about  him,  finding  her  highest  happiness 


in  being  his  slave,  seeking  her  only  recompense 
in  some  kindly  look,  or  some  encouraging  word. 

All  the  circumstances  of  his  jircsent  jiosition 
pLiplexed  him.  He  knew  not  what  to  do  :  and, 
in  this  ])er])lexity,  his  mind  at  length  settled  upon 
India  as  the  shortest  way  of  solving  all  dilHcul- 
ties.  He  could  go  back  there  again,  and  resume 
his  old  duties.  Time  might  alleviate  his  grief 
over  his  father,  and  perhaps  it  might  even  miti- 
gate the  fervor  of  that  fatal  passion  which  had 
arisen  in  his  heart  for  another  who  could  never 
be  his.  There,  at  any  rate,  he  would  have  suf- 
ficient occn])ation  to  take  up  his  thouglits,  and 
break  u]i  that  constant  tendency  which  he  now 
had  toward  memories  of  the  one  whom  he  had 
lost.  Amidst  all  his  perplexity,  therefore,  the 
only  thing  left  for  him  seemed  to  be  India. 

The  time  was  approaching  when  he  would  be 
able  to  travel  once  more.  Lausanne  is  the  most 
beautiful  place  in  the  world,  on  the  shore  of  the 
most  beautiful  of  lakes,  with  the  stupendous  forms 
of  the  Jura  Alps  before  it ;  but  even  so  beautiful 
a  place  as  this  loses  all  its  charms  to  the  one 
who  has  been  an  invalid  there,  and  the  eye 
which  has  gazed  upon  the  most  sublime  scenes  in 
nature  from  a  sick-bed  loses  all  j)Ower  of  admir- 
ing their  sublimity.  And  so  Lord  Chetwynde 
wearied  of  Lausanne,  and  the  Lake  of  Geneva, 
and  the  Jura  Alps,  and,  in  his  restlessness,  he 
longed  for  other  scenes  which  might  be  fresher, 
and  not  connected  with  such  mournful  associa- 
tions. 80  he  began  to  talk  in  a  general  way  of 
going  to  Italy.  This  he  mentioned  to  the  doc- 
tor, who  happened  one  day  to  ask  him  how  he 
liked  Lausanne.  The  question  gave  him  an  op- 
portunity of  saying  that  he  looked  upon  it  simjily 
as  a  place  where  he  had  been  ill,  and  that  lie  was 
anxious  to  get  off"  to  Italy  as  soon  as  possible. 

"  Italy  ?"  said  the  doctor. 

"Yes." 

"  What  part  are  you  going  to?" 

"Oh,  I  don't  know.  Florence,  I  suppose — 
at  first — and  then  other  places.  It  don't  much 
matter." 

Hilda  heard  this  in  her  vigilant  watchfulness. 
It  awakened  fears  within  her  that  all  her  devo- 
tion had  been  in  vain,  and  that  he  was  ])lanning 
to  leave  her.  It  seemed  so.  There  was,  there- 
fore, no  feeling  of  gratitude  in  his  heart  for  all 
she  had  done.  What  she  had  done  she  now  re- 
called in  her  bitterness — all  the  love,  the  devo- 
tion, the  idolatry  which  she  had  lavished  upon 
him  would  be  as  nothing.  He  had  regained  the 
control  of  his  mind,  and  his  first  thought  was  to 
fly.  The  discovery  of  this  indift'erence  of  his 
was  terrible.  She  had  trusted  much  to  her  de- 
votion. She  had  thought  that,  in  a  nature  like 
his,  which  was  at  once  so  pure,  so  high-minded, 
and  so  chivalrous,  the  spectacle  of  her  noble  self- 
sacrifice,  combined  with  the  discovery  of  her  pro- 
found and  all-absorbing  love,  would  have  awak- 
ened some  response,  if  it  were  nothing  stronger 
than  mere  gr.ititude  And  why  should  it  not  be 
so  ?  she  thought.  If  she  were  ugly,  or  old,  it 
would  be  ditt'erent.  But  she  was  young ;  and, 
more  than  this,  she  was  beautiful.  True,  her 
cheeks  were  not  so  rounded  as  they  once  were, 
her  eyes  were  more  hollow  than  they  used  to  be, 
the  pallor  of  her  complexion  was  more  intense 
than  usual,  and  her  lips  were  not  so  red ;  but 
what  then  ?  These  were  the  signs  and  the  marks 
which  had  been  left  upon  her  face  by  that  death- 


L 


'•''"^"■■pmpfp 


PfWPW-l 


»wmmmmvfrmimimr^ 


THE  CKYl'TOGRAM. 


193 


lesB  devotion  wliicli  «lie  Imd  »hown  fowiird  liim. 
If  there  was  any  clmiiKe  i"  l>er,  lie  nioiie  was  the 
cause,  and  she  had  ottered  herself  up  to  him. 
That  pallor,  that  delicacy,  that  weakness,  and 
that  emaciation  of  frame  were  all  the  visihle  signs 
and  tokens  of  her  self-sacrilicing  love  for  him. 
These  things,  instead  of  repelling  him,  ought  to  at- 
tract him.  Moreover,  in  .«.  Ue  of  all  these  things, 
even  with  her  wasted  form,  she  could  see  that 
she  was  yet  heautifnl.  Her  dark  eyes  beamed 
more  darkly  than  before  from  their  hollow  orbs, 
against  the  pallor  of  her  face  the  ebon  hair  shone 
more  lustrously,  as  it  hung  in  dark  voluminous 
masses  downward,  and  the  white  face  itself 
showed  features  that  were  faultlessly  beautiful. 
Why  shoidd  he  turn  away  from  so  beautiful  a 
woman,  who  had  so  fully  proved  her  love  and 
her  devotion?  8he  felt  that  after  this  conspicu- 
ous example  of  her  love  he  could  never  again 
bring  forward  against  her  those  old  charges  of 
deceit  which  he  had  once  uttered.  These,  at 
least,  were  dead  forever.  All  the  letters  which 
she  hud  written  from  the  very  first,  on  to  that 
last  letter  of  which  he  had  spoken  so  bitterly — 
all  were  now  amply  atoned  for  by  the  devotion 
of  the  last  few  weeks — a  devotion  that  shrank 
not  from  suffering,  nor  even  from  death  itself. 
Why  then  did  he  not  reciprocate?  Why  was  it 
that  he  held  himself  aloof  in  such  a  manner  from 
her  caresses  ?  Why  was  it  that  when  her  voice 
grew  tremulous  from  the  deep  love  of  her  heart 
she  found  no  response,  but  only  saw  a  certain 
embarrassment  in  his  looks?  There  must  be 
some  cause  for  this,  li  he  had  been  heart-whole, 
she  thought,  he  must  haye  yielded.  There  is 
something  in  the  way.  There  is  some  other 
love.  Yes,  that  is  it,  she  concluded ;  it  is  what 
I  saw  l)efore.     He  loves  another  ! 

At  length,  one  day.  Lord  Chetwynde  began 
to  speak  to  her  more  directly  about  his  plans. ' 
He  had  made  up  his  mind  to  make  them  known 
to  her,  and  so  he  availed  himself  of  the  first  op- 
portunity. 

"I  must  soon  take  my  departure.  Lady  Chet- 
wynde,'* said  he,  as  he  plunged  at  once  into  the 
midst  of  affairs.  "I  have  made  up  my  mind 
to  go  to  Italy  next  week.  As  I  intend  to  return 
to  India  I  shall  not  go  back  to  England  again. 
All  my  business  affairs  are  in  the  hands  of  my 
solicitors,  and  they  will  arrange  all  that  I  wish 
to  be  done." 

By  this  liOrd  Chetwynde  meant  that  his  so- 
licitors would  arrange  with  Hilda  those  raoney- 
tnatters  of  which  he  had  once  spoken.  He  had 
too  much  consideration  for  her  to  make  any  di- 
rect allusion  to  them  now,  but  wished,  neverthe- 
less, that  she  should  understand  his  words  in 
this  way. 

And  in  this  way  she  did  understand  them. 
Her  comprehension  and  apprehension  were  full 
and  complete.  By  his  tone  and  his  look  more 
than  by  his  words  she  perceived  that  she  had 
gained  nothing  by  all  her  devotion.  He  had  not 
meant  to  inflict  actual  suftering  on  her  by  thfese 
words.  He  had  simply  used  them  because  he 
thought  that  it  was  best  to  acquaint  her  with  his 
resolve  in  the  most  direct  way,  and,  as  he  had  tried 
for  a  long  time  to  find  some  delicate  way  of  do- 
ing this  without  success,  he  had  at  length,  in 
desperation,  adopted  that  which  was  most  sim- 
I)le  and  plain.  But  to  Hilda  it  was  abrupt,  and 
although  she  was  not  altogether  unprepared,  yet 
N 


it  came  like  a  thunder-rlup,  and  for  a  moment 
site  sunk  clown  into  the  depths  of  despair. 

Then  she  rallied.  In  spite  of  the  consciousness 
of  the  truth  of  her  position — a  truth  which  was 
unknown  to  Lord  Chetwynde — she  felt  as  though 
she  were  the  victim  of  ingratitude  and  injustice. 
What  she  had  done  entitled  her,  she  thought,  to 
something  more  than  a  cold  dismissal.  All  licr 
pride  and  her  dignity  arose  in  arms  at  this  slight. 
iSho  regarded  him  calmly  for  a  few  moments  as 
she  listened  to  his  words.  Then  all  the  jient-up 
feelings  of  her  heart  burst  forth  irrepressibly. 

"Lord  Chetwynde,"  said  she,  in  .-.  low  and 
mournful  voice,  "  I  once  would  not  have  said  to 
you  what  I  am  now  going  to  say.  I  hod  not 
the  right  to  say  it,  nor  if  1  had  would  my  pride 
have  permitted  me.  But  now  I  feel  that  I  have 
earned  the  right  to  say  it ;  and  as  to  my  pride, 
that  has  long  since  been  buried  in  the  dust. 
Besides,  your  words  render  it  necessary  that  I 
should  speak,  and  no  longer  keep  silence.  We 
had  one  interview,  in  which  you  did  all  the 
speaking  and  I  kept  silence.  We  had  another 
interview  in  which  I  made  a  vain  attempt  at 
conciliation.  I  tiow  wish  to  speak  merely  to 
explain  things  as  they  have  been,  and  as  they 
are,  so  that  hereafter  you  may  feel  this,  at  least, 
that  I  have  been  frank  and  open  at  last. 

"  Lord  Chetwynde,  you  remember  that  old 
bond  that  bound  me  to  you.  What  was  I  ?  A 
girl  of  ten — a  child.  Afterward  I  was  held  to 
that  bond  under  circumstances  that  have  been 
impressed  upon  my  memory  indelibly.  My  fa- 
ther in  the  last  hour  of  his  life,  when  delirium 
was  upon  him,  forced  me  to  carry  it  out.  You 
were  older  than  I.  You  were  a  grown  man.  1 
was  a  cl'ild  of  fourteen.  Could  you  not  have 
found  s'^me  way  of  saving  me?  1  was  a  child. 
Y'ou  we'  e  a  man.  Could  you  not  have  obtained 
some  onj  who  was  not  a  priest,  so  that  such  a 
mockery  of  a  marriage  mip;ht  have  remained  a 
mockery,  and  not  have  become  a  reality?  It 
would  have  been  easy  to  do  that.  My  father's 
last  hours  would  then  have  been  lightened  all 
the  same,  while  you  and  I  would  not  have  been 
joined  in  that  irrevocable  vow.  I  tell  you.  Lord 
Chetwynde,  that,  in  the  years  that  followed,  this 
thought  was  often  in  my  mind,  and  thus  it  was 
that  I  learned  to  lay  upon  you  the  chief  blame 
of  the  events  that  resulted. 

"You  have  spoken  to  me,  I^rd  Chetwynde, 
in  very  plain  language  about  the  letters  that  I 
wrote.  You  found  in  them  taunts  and  sneers 
which  you  considered  intolerable.  Tell  me,  my 
lord,  if  you  had  been  in  my  position,  v/ould 
you  have  been  more  generous  ?  Think  how  gall- 
ing it  is  to  a  proud  and  sensitive  nature  to  dis- 
cover that  it  is  tied  up  and  bound  beyond  the 
possibility  of  release.  Now  this  is  far  worse  for 
a  woman  than  it  is  for  a  man.  A  woman,  un- 
less she  is  an  Asiatic  and  a  slave,  does  not  wish 
to  be  given  up  unasked.  I  found  myself  the 
property  of  one  who  was  not  only  indifferent  to 
me,  but,  as  I  plainly  saw,  averse  to  me.  It  was 
but  natural  that  I  should  meet  scorn  with  scom.- 
In  your  letters  I  could  read  between  the  lines, 
and  in  your  cold  and  constrained  answers  to 
your  father's  remarks  about  me  I  saw  how  strong 
was  your  aversion.  In  your  letters  to  me  this 
was  still  more  evident.  What  then?  I  was 
proud  and  impetuous,  and  what  you  merely 
hinted  nt  I  expressed  openly  and  unmistakably. 


i 


194 


THE  CRYPTOGRA:\r. 


You  found  fault  with  this.     You  mftv  l)0  right, 
liut  my  conduct  wnn  nfter  all  natural. 

"  It  is  this,  Lord  dietwyndc,  wliioli  will  an- 
count  for  my  last  letter  to  yon.  Crushed  by  the 
loss  of  my  only  friend,  I  reflected  u)>()n  the  dif 
ferenco  between  you  and  him,  and  the  thought 
brought  a  bitterness  which  is  indescribable. 
Therefoie  I  wrote  as  I  ilid.  My  sorrow,  instead 
of  softening,  imhittered  me,  and  I  poured  forth 
all  my  bitterness  in  that  letter.  It  stung  you. 
You  were  maddened  liy  it  a  id  outraged.  You 
saw  in  it  only  the  symptoms  and  the  proofs  of 
what  yo'i  cliose  to  call  a  '  l)ad  mind  and  heart. ' 
If  you  reflect  a  little  you  will  see  that  your  con 
elusions  were  not  so  strictly  just  as  they  might 
have  been.  You  yourself,  you  will  see,  were  not 
the  immaculate  being  which  you  suppose  your- 
self to  be. 

"I  say  to  you  now.  Lord  Chetwynde,  that  nil 
this  time,  instead  of  hating  yon,  I  felt  very  dif- 
ferently toward  you.  I  had  for  you  a  feeling  of 
regard  which,  at  least,  may  be  called  sisterly. 
Associating  with  your  father  as  I  did,  possessing 
his  love,  and  enjoying  his  confidence,  it  would 
have  been  strange  if  I  had  not  sympathized  with 
him  somewhat  in  his  alfectiona.  Your  name  was 
always  on  his  lips.  You  were  the  one  of  whom 
he  was  always  speaking.  When  I  wished  to 
make  him  happy,  and  such  a  wish  was  always  in 
my  heart,  I  found  no  way  so  sure  and  certain  as 
when  I  spoke  in  praise  of  yon.  During  those 
years  when  I  was  writing  those  letters  which 
you  think  showed  a  '  bad  mhid  and  heart,'  I  was 
incessantly  engaged  in  sounding  your  praises  to 
your  father.  What  he  thought  of  me  you  know. 
If  I  had  a '  bad  mind  and  heart,'  he,  at  least,  who 
knew  me  best,  never  discovered  it.  He  gave  me 
his  confidence — more,  he  gave  me  his  love. 

"  Lord  Chetwynde,  when  you  came  home  and 
crushed  me  with  your  cruel  words  1  said  nothing, 
for  I  was  overcome  by  your  cruelty.  Then  I 
thought  that  the  best  way  for  me  to  do  was  to 
show  you  by  my  life  and  by  my  acts,  rather  than 
by  any  words,  how  unjust  you  had  been.  How 
you  treated  my  advances  you  well  know.  With- 
out being  guilty  of  any  discourtesy,  you  contrived 
to  make  me  feel  that  I  was  abhorrent.  Still  I 
did  not  despair  of  clearing  my  character  in  your 
sight.  I  asked  an  interview.  I  tried  to  ex])lain, 
but,  as  you  well  remember,  you  coolly  pushed  all 
my  explanations  aside  as  so  much  hypocritical 
pretense.  My  lord,  you  were  educated  by  your 
father  in  the  school  of  ^lonor  and  chivalry.  I 
will  not  ask  you  now  if  your  conduct  was  chival- 
rous.    I  only  ask  you,  was  it  even  just  ? 

"  And  all  this  time,  my  lord,  what  were  my 
feelings  toward  you  ?  Let  me  tell  you,  and  you 
yourself  can  judge.  I  will  confess  them,  though 
nothing  less  than  despair  would  ever  have  wrung 
such  a  confession  out  of  me.  Let  me  tell  you 
then,  my  lord,  what  my  feelings  were.  Not  as 
expressed  in  empty  words  or  in  prolix  letters,  but 
as  manifested  by  acts. 

"  Your  valet  wrote  me  that  you  were  ill.  I 
left  immediately,  filled  with  anxiety.  Anxiety 
and  fatigue  both  overpowered  me.  When  I 
reached  Frankfort  I  was  struck  down  by  fever. 
It  was  because  I  found  that  you  had  left  that  my 
fever  was  so  severe.  Scarce  had  I  recovered 
than  I  hurried  to  Baden,  finding  out  your  ad- 
dress from  the  people  of  the  Frankfort  Hotel. 
You  had  gone  to  Munich.    I  followed  you  to 


Munich,  so  weak  that  T  had  to  bo  carried  into 
my  cab  at  Hadcn,  and  out  of  it  at  Munich.  At 
Munich  another  attack  of  fever  jM'ostrated  me. 
I  had  missed  you  again,  and  my  anxiety  was  in- 
tolerable. A  thousand  dreary  fears  oi>pressed 
me.     I  thought  that  you  were  dying — " 

Here  Hilda's  voice  faltered,  and  she  8top])ed 
for  a  time,  struggling  with  her  emotion. 

"  I  thought  that  you  were  dying,"  she  repeat- 
ed. "  In  my  fever  my  situatiim  was  rendered 
infinitely  worse  by  this  fear.  Hut  at  length  I  re- 
covered, and  wetit  on.  I  reached  Lansaime. 
I  foimd  you  at  the  last  point  of  life.  I  had  time 
to  give  you  your  medicine  and  leave  directions 
with  your  nurse,  and  then  I  fell  down  senseless 
by  your  side. 

"  My  lord,  while  you  were  ill  /  was  worse. 
My  life  was  despaired  of.  Would  to  God  that  1 
had  died  then  and  there  in  tlie  crisis  of  that  fe- 
ver I  But  I  escaped  it,  and  once  more  rose  from 
my  bed. 

"  I  dragged  myself  bac-k  to  your  side,  and 
staid  there  on  my  sofa,  keeping  watch  over  you, 
till  once  more  1  was  struck  down.  Then  I  recov- 
ered once  more,  and  gained  health  and  strength 
again.  Tell  me,  my  lord,"  and  Hilda's  eyes 
seemed  to  penetrate  to  the  soul  of  Lord  Chet- 
wynde as  she  spoke — "  tel'  me,  is  this  the  sign 
of  a  '  bad  mind  and  heart  ?   ' 

As  Hilda  had  spoken  she  had  evinced  the 
strongest  agitation.  Her  hands  clutched  one 
another,  her  voice  was  tremidous  with  emotion, 
her  face  was  white,  and  a  hectic  flush  on  either 
cheek  showed  her  excitement.  Lord  Chetwynde 
would  have  been  either  more  or  less  than  human 
if  he  had  listened  unmoved.  As  it  was,  ho  felt 
moved  to  the  depths  of  his  soul.  Yet  he  could 
not  say  one  word. 

"  I  am  alone  in  the  world,"  said  Hilda,  mourn- 
fully. "  Y'ou  promised  once  to  see  about  my  hap- 
piness. That  was  a  vow  extorted  from  a  boy,  and 
it  is  nothing  in  itself.  You  said,  not  long  ago, 
that  you  intended  to  keep  your  promise  by  sep- 
arating yourself  from  me  and  giving  me  some 
money.  Lord  Chetwynde,  look  at  me,  think  of 
what  I  have  done,  and  answer.  Is  this  the  way 
to  secure  my  happiness  ?  What  is  money  to  me  ? 
Money !  iJo  I  care  for  money  ?  What  is  it  that 
I  care  for  ?  I  ?  I  only  wish  to  die !  I  have  but 
a  short  time  to  live.  I  feel  that  I  am  doomed. 
Your  money.  Lord  Chetwynde,  will  soon  go  back 
to  you.  Spare  your  solicitors  the  trouble  to 
which  you  are  putting  them.  If  you  can  give 
me  death,  it  will  be  the  best  thing  that  you  can 
bestow.  I  gave  you  life.  Can  you  not  return  the 
boon  by  giving  me  death,  my  lord  ?" 

These  last  words  Hilda  wailed  out  in  low  tones 
of  despair  which  vibrated  in  Lord  Chetwynde's 
breast. 

"At  least,"  said  she,  "do  not  be  in  haste 
about  leaving  me.  I  will  soon  leave  you  forever. 
It  is  not  much  I  ask.  Let  me  only  be  near  you 
for  a  short  time,  my  lord.  It  is  a  small  wish. 
Bear  with  me.  You  will  see,  before  I  die,  that  I 
have  not  altogether  a  '  bad  mind  and  heart.'  " 

Her  voice  sank  down  into  low  tones  of  suppli- 
cation ;  her  head  drooped  forward  ;  her  intense 
feeling  overcame  her ;  tears  burst  from  her  eyes 
and  flowed  unchecked. 

"  Lady  Chetwynde,"  said  Lord  Chetwynde,  in 
deep  emotion,  "do  as  you  wish.  You  have  my 
gratitude  for  your  noble  devotion.     I  owe  my 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


1»5 


life  to  you.     If  you  really  caro  about  nccomim- 
iiying  ine  I  will  not  tliwurt  your  wishes.     I  can 
!<uy  no  mure.     And  let  ua  never  tiguin  speak  of 
tlie  paHt." 
And  this  was  all  that  Lord  Chetwynde  said. 


CIlAl'TEU  LIX. 

ON    TIIK    I«)AI>. 

Before  Lord  Chetwynde  left  Lausanne  the 
doctor  told  liim  all  aliout  the  ]ioisou  and  the  an- 
tidote. He  cnliirged  with  great  enthuniasm  upon 
Lady  Chetwynde's  devotion  and  foresight ;  but 
his  information  caused  Jiord  l^hctwynde  to  med- 
itate deeply  u|X)n  this  thing.  Hilda  found  out 
that  the  doctor  had  saitl  this,  and  gave  her  ex- 
planation. t>he  said  that  the  valet  had  described 
the  symptoms ;  that  she  had  asked  a  London  doc- 
tor, who  susiiecteil  poison,  and  gave  her  an  anti- 
'lote.  She  herself,  she  said,  did  not  know  what 
to  tiiink  of  it,  but  had  naturally  suspected  the 
valet.  She  ha(f  charged  him  with  it  on  her  ar- 
rival. He  had  looked  very  much  confused,  and 
had  immediately  fled  from  the  i)lace.  His  guilt, 
in  her  opinion,  had  been  confirmed  by  his  flight. 
To  her  opinion  Lord  Chetwynde  assented,  and 
conclude  'hat  his  volet  wished  to  plunder  him. 
He  now  ri  died  many  susjucious  circumstances 
about  him,  und  remembered  that  he  had  taken 
the  man  without  asking  any  one  about  him,  sat- 
isfied with  the  lettefs  of  recomm»^ndation  which 
he  had  brought,  and  which  he  had  not  taken  the 
trouble  to  verify.  He  now  believed  that  these 
letters  were  all  no  better  than  forgeries,  and  that 
lie  had  well-nigh  fallen  a  victim  to  one  of  the 
worst  of  villains.  Jn  his  mind  this  revelation  of 
the  doctor  only  gave  a  new  claim  upon  his  grat- 
itude toward  the  woman  who  haii  rescued  him. 

Shortly  after  he  storted  for  Ito.y.  Hilda  went 
with  him.  His  position  was  em'oarrossing.  Here 
was  a  womr.n  to  whom  he  lay  utider  the  deep- 
est obligations,  whose  tender  and  devoted  love 
was  manifestec"  in  every  word  and  action,  and 
yet  he  was  utterly  incapable  of  reciprocating 
that  love.  She  was  beautiful,  but  her  beauty  did 
not  affect  him  ;  she  was,  as  he  thought,  his  wife, 
yet  he  could  never  be  a  husband  to  her.  Her 
piteous  appeal  had  moved  his  heart,  and  forced 
him  to  take  her  with  him,  yet  he  was  looking  for- 
ward impatiently  for  some  opportunity  of  leaving 
her.  He  could  think  of  India  only  as  the  place 
which  was  likely  to  give  hiiu  this  opportunity, 
and  concluded  that  after  a  short  stay  in  Flor- 
ence he  would  leave  for  the  East,  and  resume 
his  old  duties.  Before  leaving  Lausanne  he 
wrote  to  the  authorities  in  England,  and  applied 
to  be  reinstated  in  some  position  in  the  Indian 
ser\ice,  whicn  he  had  not  yet  quitted,  or,  if  possi- 
ble, to  go  back  to  his  old  place.  A  return  to  In- 
dia was  now  his  only  hope,  and  the  only  way  by 
Avhich  he  could  escape  from  the  very  peculiar  dif- 
ficulties of  his  situation. 

It  was  a  trying  position,  but  he  took  refuge 
in  a  certain  lofty  courtesy  which  well  became 
him,  and  which  might  pas*  very  well  for  that 
warmer  feeliny  of  which  he  was  destitute.  His 
natural  kindliness  of  disposition  softened  his  man- 
ner toward  Hilda,  and  his  sense  of  obligation 
made  him  tenderly  considerate.  If  Hilda  could 
have  been  content  with  any  thing  except  positive 


love,  she  woidd  have  found  happiness  in  that 
gentle  and  kindly  and  chivalrous  courtesy  which 
she  received  at  the  hands  of  Lord  Chetwynde. 
Cimtent  with  this  she  was  not.  It  was  some- 
thing ditrerent  from  this  that  she  desired  ;  yet. 
after  all,  it  was  an  immense  advance  on  the  old 
state  of  things.  It  gave  her  the  chance  of  nuik- 
ing  herself  known  to  Lord  Chetwynde,  a  chance 
whicli  had  been  denied  to  her  before.  Conver- 
sation was  no  longer  impossible.  At  Chetwynde 
('astlo  there  had  been  nothing  but  the  most  form- 
al remarks;  now  there  were  things  which  ap- 
proximated almost  to  an  interchange  of  conti- 
deiu!e.  Uy  her  devotion,  and  by  her  confession 
of  her  feelings,  she  had  presented  herself  to  him 
in  a  new  light,  and  that  memorable  confession 
of  he''s  could  not  be  forgotten.  It  was  while 
traveling  together  that  the  new  state  of  things 
was  most  manifest  to  her.  She  sat  next  to  him 
in  the  carriage ;  she  touched  hiin  ;  her  arm  was 
close  to  his.  That  touch  thrilled  through  her, 
even  though  she  knew  too  well  that  he  was  cold 
and  calm  and  indifferent.  But  this  was,  at  least, 
a  better  thing  than  that  abhorrence  and  repug- 
nance which  he  had  formerly  manifested ;  and 
the  friendly  smile  and  the  genial  remark  which 
he  often  directed  to  her  were  received  by  her  with 
joy,  and  treasured  up  in  the  depths  of  her  soul 
as  something  precious. 

Traveling  thus  together  through  scenes  of 
grandeur  and  of  beauty,  seated  side  by  side,  it 
was  impossible  to  avoid  a  closer  intimacy  than 
common.  In  spite  of  Lord  Chetwynde's  cool- 
ness, the  very  fact  that  he  was  thus  thrown  into 
constant  contact  with  a  woman  who  was  at  once 
beautiful  and  clever,  and  who  at  the  same  time 
had  made  an  open  confession  of  her  devotion  to 
him,  was  of  itself  sufficient  to  inspire  something 
like  kindliness  of  sentiment  at  least  in  his  heart, 
even  though  that  heart  were  the  coldest  and  the 
least  susceptible  that  ever  beat.  The  .scenes 
through  which  they  passed  were  of  themselvr 
calculated  in  the  highest  degree  to  excite  a  com- 
munion of  soul.  Hilda  was  clever  and  well-read, 
with  a  deep  love  for  the  beautifr'  and  a  familiar 
acquaintance  with  all  modem  literature.  There 
was  not  a  beautiful  spot  on  the  road  which  had 
been  sung  by  jjoets  or  celebrated  in  fiction  of 
which  she  was  ignorant.  Ferney,  sacred  to  Vol- 
taire ;  Geneva,  the  birth-place  of  liou.sseau  ;  the 
Jura  Alps,  sung  by  Byron ;  the  thousand  places 
of  lesser  note  embalmed  by  French  or  German 
writers  in  song  and  story,  were  all  greeted  by 
her  with  a  delight  that  was  girlish  in  its  enthusi- 
astic demonstiativeness.  Lord  Chetwynde,  him- 
self intellectual,  recognized  and  respected  the 
brilliant  intellect  of  his  companion.  He  saw  that 
the  woman  who  had  saved  his  life  at  the  risk  of 
her  own,  who  had  dropped  down  senseless  at 
his  bed'^'"^  overworn  with  duties  self-imposed 
throuf,  3  for  him — the  woman  who  had  over- 
whelmed him  with  obligations  of  gratitude — could 
also  dazzle  him  with  her  intellectual  brilliancy, 
and  surpass  him  in  familiarity  with  the  greatest 
geniuses  of  modern  times. 

Another  circumstance  had  contributed  toward 
the  formation  of  a  closer  association  between  these 
two.  Hilda  had  no  maid  with  her,  but  was  trav- 
eling unattended.  On  leaving  Lausanne  she 
found  that  Gretchen  was  unwilling  to  go  to 
Italy,  and  had,  therefore,  parted  with  her  with 
many  kind  word.",  and  the  beftowal  of  presents 


196 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


sufficiently  valuable  to  make  the  kind-hearted 
(ieiman  maid  keep  in  iier  memoiy  for  many 
years  to  come  tlie  recollection  of  that  gentle 
siirt'ering  Knglish  lady,  whose  devotion  to  her 
husband  had  been  shown  so  signally,  and  almost 
at  the  cost  of  her  own  life.  Hilda  took  no  maid 
with  her.  Either  she  could  not  obtain  one  in  so 
small  a  place  as  Lausaime,  or  else  she  did  not 
ttiioose  to  employ  one.  Whatever  the  cause  may 
have  been,  the  result  was  to  throw  her  more  upon 
the  cave  of  Lord  Chetwynde,  who  was  forced,  if 
not  from  gratitude  at  least  from  common  jiolite- 
ness,  to  show  her  many  of  those  little  attentions 
which  are  demanded  by  a  lady  from  a  gentleman. 
Traveling  together  as  they  did,  those  attentions 
were  required  more  frequently  than  under  ordi- 
nary circumstances  ;  and  although  they  seemed 
to  l>ord  Chetwv  the  most  ordinary  common- 
places, yet  to  H .  every  separate  act  of  atten- 
tion or  of  common  politeness  carried  with  it  a  joy 
which  was  felt  through  all  her  being.  If  she  had 
reasoned  about  that  joy,  she  might  perhaps  have 
seen  how  unfounded  it  was.  But  she  did  not 
reason  about  it ;  it  was  enough  to  her  that  he  was 
by  her  side,  and  that  acts  like  these  came  from 
him  to  '  jr.  In  her  mind  all  the  past  and  all  the 
future  were  forgotten,  and  there  was  nothing  but 
an  e.  _  yment  of  the  present. 

Their  journey  lay  through  regions  which  jjre- 
sented  every  thing  that  could  charm  the  taste 
or  awaken  admiration.  At  first  there  was  the 
grandeur  of  Alpine  scenery.  From  this  they 
emerged  into  the  softer  beauty  of  the  Italian 
clime.  It  was  the  iSimplon  Road  which  tliey 
traversed,  that  gigantic  monument  to  the  genius 
of  Xapoleon,  which  is  more  enduring  than  even 
the  fame  of  Marengo  or  Austerlitz ;  and  this 
road,  with  its  alternating  scenes  of  grandeur  and 
of  beauty,  of  glory  and  of  gloom,  had  elicited 
the  utmost  admiration  from  each.  At  length, 
one  day,  as  they  were  descending  this  road  on  the 
slojie  nearest  Italy,  on  leaving  Domo  d'Ossola, 
tliey  came  to  a  place  where  the  boundless  plains 
of  Ijombardy  lay  stretched  before  them.  There 
the  verdurous  fields  stretched  away  beneath  their 
eyes — an  expanse  of  living  green  ;  seeming  like 
the  abode  of  per])etual  summer  to  those  who 
looked  down  from  the  habitation  of  winter. 
Far  away  spread  the  jilains  to  t'i<>,  distant  hori- 
zon, where  the  purple  Apennines  arose  bounding 
the  view.  Nearer  was  the  Lago  Maggiore  with 
its  wondrous  islands,  the  Isola  Uella  and  the 
I  sola  Madre,  covered  with  their  hanging  gardens, 
whose  green  foliage  rose  over  the  dark  blue  wa- 
tei's  of  the  lake  beneath  ;  while  beyond  that  lake 
lay  towns  and  villages  and  hamlets,  whose  far 
white  walls  gleamed  brightly  amidst  the  vivid 
green  of  the  surroimding  plain ;  and  vineyards 
also,  and  groves  and  orchards  and  forests  of 
olive  and  chestnut  trees.  It  was  a  scene  which 
no  other  on  earth  can  smpass,  if  it  can  equal, 
and  one  which,  to  travelers  descending  the  Alps, 
has  in  every  age  brought  a  resistless  charm. 

liiis  was  the  first  time  that  Hilda  had  seen 
this  glorious  land.  Lord  (^hetwynde  had  viait- 
cd  Naples,  but  to  him  the  prospect  that  lay  be- 
neath was  as  striking  as  thoi>gh  he  had  never 
seen  any  of  the  beauties  of  Italy.  Hilda,  however, 
♦elt  its  jiower  most.  Uoth  gazed  long  and  with 
deep  admiration  upon  this  matchless  scene  with- 
out uttering  one  word  to  express  their  emotions  ; 
viewing  it  in  silence,  as  though  to  break  tliut  si- 


lence wotdd  break  the  spell  which  had  been  thrown 
over  them  by  the  first  sight  of  this  wondrous  land. 
At  last  Hilda  i)roke  tliat  spell.  Carried  away  by 
the  excitement  of  the  moment  she  started  to  her 
feet,  and  stood  erect  in  the  carriage,  and  then 
burst  forth  into  that  noble  i)araiihiase  which  By- 
ron has'made  of  the  glorious  soiuiet  of  Filicajii  : 

"Italia!    O  Italia!  thou  who  hast 

Tlie  fatal  gift  of  beauty,  which  became 
A  funeral  dower  of  present  woes  and  past, 
On  thy  sweet  brow  is  sorrow  plowed  by  shame, 
And  annals  graven  in  characters  of  flnnie. 
O  (iod!  that  thou  wert  in  thy  nakedness 

Less  lovely,  or  more  powerful,  and  couklst  claim 
Thy  right,  and  awe  the  robbers  back,  who  jirei-B 
To  shed  thy  blood  and  drink  the  tears  of  thy  distress.' 

She  stood  like  a  Sibyl,  insjiired  by  the  scene 
before  her.  Pale,  yet  lovely,  with  all  her  intel- 
lectual beauty  refined  by  tlie  sorrows  through 
which  she  had  passed,  she  herself  might  have 
been  taken  for  an  image  of  that  Italy  which  she 
thus  invoked.  Lord  Chetwynde  looked  at  her, 
and  amidst  his  surprise  at  such  an  outburst  of 
enthusiasm  he  had  some  such  thoughts  as  these. 
But  suddetdy,  from  some  unknown  cause,  Hilda 
sank  back  into  her  seat,  and  burst  into  tears. 
At  the  display  of  such  emotion  Lord  Chetwynde 
looked  on  dee])iy  disturbed.  What  possible  con- 
nection there  could  be  between  these  words  and 
her  agitation  he  could  not  see.  But  he  was  full 
of  pity  for  her,  and  he  did  what  was  most  nat- 
ural. He  took  her  hand,  and  s])oke  kind  words 
to  her,  and  tried  to  soothe  her.  At  his  touch 
her  agitation  subsided.  She'smiled  through  her 
tears,  and  looked  at  him  with  a  glance  that  spoke 
unutterable  things.  It  was  the  first  time  that 
Lord  (  hetwynde  liad  shown  toward  her  any  thing 
approaching  to  tenderness. 

On  that  same  day  another  mcident  occurred. 

A  few  miles  beyond  Domo  d'Ossola  there  was 
an  inn  where  they  had  stopi)ed  to  change  horses. 
They  waited  here  for  a  time  till  the  horses  were 
ready,  and  then  resumed  their  journey.  The 
road  went  on  before  them  for  miles,  winding 
along  gently  in  easy  curves  and  with  a  gradual 
descent  toward  those  smiling  vales  which  lay  be- 
neath them.  As  they  drove  onward  each  tinn 
in  the  road  seemed  to  bring  some  new  view  be- 
fore them,  and  to  disclose  some  fresh  glimpse  to 
their  eyes  of  that  voluptuous  Italian  beauty  which 
they  were  now  beholding,  and  which  ajipenrcil 
all  the  lovelier  from  the  contrast  which  it  pie- 
sented  to  that  sublime  Aljiine  sceneiy — the  gloom 
of  awftd  gorges,  the  grandeur  of  snow-cupped 
heights  through  which  they  had  been  joi:rney- 
ing. 

Inside  the  carriage  were  Lord  Chetwynde  and 
Hilda.  Outside  was  the  driver.  II  ilda  was  just 
pointing  out  to  Lord  t  hetwynde  some  peculiar 
tint  in  the  purple  of  the  distant  Apennines  when 
s.iddenly  the  carriage  gave  a  hnch,  and.  with  a 
wild  bound,  the  horses  started  ofi'  at  full  sjieed 
down  the  road.  Something  had  hapjiened. 
Either  the  harness  had  given  way  or  the  horses 
were  frightened  ;  at  any  rate,  they  were  running 
away  at  a  fearful  pace,  and  tl  e  driver,  erect  on 
his  seat,  was  striving  with  all  his  might  to  hold 
in  the  maddened  animals.  His  efforts  were  all 
to  no  purpose.  On  they  went,  like  the  wind, 
and  the  carriage,  tossed  from  side  to  side  at 
their  wild  springs,  seemed  sometimes  to  leap  into 
the  air.  'i'lie  road  before  tliem  woiuid  on  down 
a  spur  of  the  mountains,  with  deep  ravines  on 


".'PV  I 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


107 


were 

The 

ndiiig 

;rndual 

Inj-  I'e- 

1 11  111 

iew  be- 

pso  to 

wliicli 

i])eiii'eil 

it  pie- 

glooiii 

.•i])pe(l 

iiiiev- 


ns 
eiuliar 
s  when 

with  a 
1  sjieetl 

jjeiied. 

liorscs 
unninK 
rect  <m 
to  belli 

ere  nil 
5  wind, 
side  nt 

up  into 
n  down 
ines  on 


HE   LAILt  HEIl   DOWN   UPC^^  THE  CRASH. 


one  side— a  place  full  of  diinger  for  such  a  race 
as  this. 

It  was  a  fearful  moment.  For  a  time  Hilda 
said  not  a  word  ;  she  sat  motionless,  like  one 
jiaralyzed  hy  terror;  and  then,  as  the  carriage 
gave  a  wilder  lurch  than  usual,  she  gave  utter- 
ance to  a  loud  cry  of  fear,  and  Hung  her  arms 
around  Lord  Chetwynde. 

"  Save  me  !  oh,  save  me !"  she  exclaimed. 

She  clung  to  him  desperately,  as  though  in 
thus  dinging  to  him  she  liad  some  assurance  of 
safety.  Lord  Chetwynile  sat  erect,  looking  out 
upon  the  road  before  him,  down  which  they  were 
dasliing,  and  saying  not  a  word.  Mechanically 
he  put  his  arm  around  this  ))anic-strickeii  woman, 
who  clung  to  him  so  tightly,  as  though  by  that 
-ilent  gesture  he  meant  to  show  that  he  would 
protect  her  as  far  as  possible.  But  in  so  peril- 
oMs  a  race  all  possibility  of  protection  was  out  of 
the  (|uestion. 

At  last  the  horses,  in  their  onward  career, 
came  to  a  curve  in  the  road,  w)iere,  on  one  side, 
there  was  a  hill,  and  on  the  otli  'r  a  declivity.  It 
was  a  sharp  turn.  Their  impetus  was  too  swift 
to  be  readily  stayed.  Dashing  onward,  the  car- 
riage Aas  whirled  around  after  them,  and  was 
thrown  off  the  road  down  the  declivity.     For  a 


few  iiaces  the  horses  dragged  it  onward  as  it  l;iy 
on  its  side,  and  then  the  weight  of  the  carriage 
was  too  much  for  them.  'I'liey  .>-t')])ped,  then 
staggered,  then  backed,  and  then,  with  a  heavy 
plunge,  both  carriage  and  horses  went  down  into 
the  gully  beneath. 

It  was  not  more  than  thirty  feet  of  a  descent, 
and  the  bottom  was  the  dry  bed  of  a  mountain 
torrent.  The  horses  struggled  and  strove  to  free 
themselves,  'i'he  driver  jumped  otV  uninjured, 
and  sprang  at  them  to  stop  them.  This  he  suc- 
ceeded in  doing,  at  the  cost  of  some  severe 
bruises. 

Meanwhile  the  occupants  of  the  carriage  had 
felt  the  full  consciousness  of  the  danger.  As  the 
carriage  went  down  Hilda  clung  more  closely  to 
Lord  Chetwynde.  Ho,  on  his  part,  said  not  a 
word,  but  l)raced  himself  for  the  fall.  The  car- 
riage rolled  over  and  over  in  its  descent,  and  at 
last  stopped.  Lord  Chetwynde,  with  Hilda  in 
his  arms,  was  thrown  violently  down.  As  soon 
as  he  could  he  raised  himself  and  drew  Hilda 
out  from  the  wreck  of  the  carriage. 

She  was  senseless. 

He  laid  her  down  upon  the  grass.  Her  eyes 
were  dosed,  her  hair  was  all  disordered,  her  face 
was  as  white  as  the  face  of  u  corpse.     A  stream 


108 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM, 


of  blood  trickled  down  over  her  marble  forehead 
from  a  wound  in  her  head.  It  was  a  piteous 
sight. 

Lord  Chetwynde  took  iier  in  his  arms  and  car- 
ri.j  her  off  a  litti'^  distance,  to  a  place  where 
there  wat  some  water  in  the  bed  of  the  brook. 
With  thib  e  sought  to  restore  her  to  conscious- 
ness. For  a  long  time  hia  efforts  were  unavail- 
ing. 

At  last  he  called  to  the  driver. 

"Tie  up  one  of  the  horses  and  get  on  the 
other,"  he  said,  "and  ride  for  your  life  to  tiie 
nearest  house.  Bring  help.  The  lady  is  stunned, 
niid  must  be  taken  away  as  soon  as  possible. 
(Jet  them  to  knock  up  a  litter,  and  bring  a  couple 
of  stout  fallows  back  to  help  us  curry  her.  Make 
haste — for  your  life. " 

The  driver  at  once  comprehended  the  whole 
situation.  He  did  as  he  was  bid,  and  in  a  few 
minutes  the  sound  of  his  horse's  hoofs  died  away 
in  the  distance. 

Lord  Ciietwynde  was,  left  alone  with  Hilda. 

8he  lay  in  his  arms,  her  beautiful  face  on  his 
shoulder,  tenderly  supported ;  that  face  white, 
and  the  lips  bloodless,  the  eyes  closed,  and  blood 
tnckling  from  the  wound  on  her  head.  It  was 
not  a  sight  upon  which  any  one  might  look  un- 
moved. 

And  Lord  Chetwynde  was  moved  to  his  inmost 
soul  by  that'  sight. 

Who  was  this  woman  ?  His  wife !  the  one 
who  stood  between  him  and  his  desires. 

Ah,  true !     But  she  was  something  more. 

And  now,  as  he  looked  at  her  thus  lying  in 
his  arms,  there  came  to  him  the  thought  of  all 
that  she  had  been  to  him— the  thought  of  her  un- 
dying love — her  matchless  devotion.  That  pale 
face,  those  closed  eyes,  those  mute  lips,  that 
beautiful  head,  stained  with  oozing  blood,  all 
spoke  to  him  with  an  eloquence  which  awakened 
a  response  within  him. 

Was  this  the  end  of  all  that  love  and  that  de- 
votion ?  Was  this  tlie  fulfillment  of  his  promise 
to  General  Pomeroy  ?  Was  he  doing  by  tliis 
woman  as  she  had  done  by  him?  Had  she  not 
made  more  than  the  fullest  atonement  for  the 
offenses  and  follies  of  the  past  ?  Had  she  not 
followed  him  through  Europe  to  seek  him  and  to 
snatch  him  from  the  grasp  of  a  villain  ?  Had 
she  not  saved  his  life  at  the  risk  of  her  own  ? 
Had  she  not  stood  by  his  side  till  she  fell  lifeless 
at  his  feet  in  her  unparalleled  self-devotion? 

These  were  the  questions  that  came  to  him. 

He  loved  her  not ;  but  if  he  wished  for  love, 
could  he  ever  find  any  equal  to  this?  That 
poor,  frail,  slender  frame  pleaded  piteously ;  that 
white  face,  as  it  lay  u|)turned,  was  itself  a  prayer. 

Involuntarily  he  stooped  down,  and  in  his  deep 
pity  he  pressed  his  lips  to  that  icy  brow.  Then 
once  mure  he  looked  at  her.  Once  more  he 
touched  her,  and  this  time  his  lips  met  hers. 

"My  God!"  he  groaned;  "what  can  I  do? 
Why  did  I  ever  see— that  other  one  ?" 

rtn  hour  passed  and  the  driver  returned. 
Four  men  came  with  him,  carrying  a  rude  lit- 
ter. On  this  Hilda's  senseless  form  was  ploced. 
And  thus  they  carried  her  to  tlie  nearest  house, 
vvliile  Lord  Chetwynde  followed  in  silence  and  in 
deep  thought.  •'";  ,•    ,' 


CHAPTER  LX. 

THB   CLAWS   OF   THE  AMERICAN   EAOLE. 

At  length  Obed  preparev  o  leave  Naples  and 
visit  other  places  in  Italy.  He  intended  to  go 
to  Rome  and  Florence,  after  which  he  expected 
to  go  to  Venice  or  Milan,  and  then  across  the 
Alps  to  Gennany.  Two  vetturas  held  the  fam- 
ily, and  in  due  time  they  arrived  at  Terracina. 
Here  they  passed  the  night,  and  early  on  the 
following  day  they  set  out,  expecting  to  traverse 
the  Pontine  Marshes  and  reach  Albano  by  even- 
ing. 

These  famous  ma'shes  extend  from  Terracina 
to  Nettuno.  They  are  about  forty-five  miles  in 
length  and  from  four  to  twelve  in  breadth. 
Drained  successively  by  Roman,  by  Goth,  and  by 
pope,  they  successively  relapsed  into  their  natu- 
ral state,  until  the  perseverance  of  Pius  VI.  com- 
pleted the  work.  It  is  now  largely  cultivated, 
but  the  scenery  is  monotonous  and  the  journey 
tedious.  The  few  inhabitants  found  here  get 
their  living  by  hunting  and  by  robbery,  and  are 
distinguished  by  their  j)ale  and  sickly  appear- 
ance. At  this  time  the  disturbed  state  of  Italy, 
and  particularly  of  the  papal  dominions,  made 
traveling  sometimes  hazardous,  and  no  place  was 
more  dangerous  than  this.  Yet  Obed  gave  this 
no  thought,  but  started  on  the  journey  with  as 
much  cheerfulness  as  though  he  were  making  a 
railway  trip  from  New  York  to  Philadelphia. 

About  half-way  there  is  a  solitary  inn,  sit\iated 
close  by  the  road-side,  with  a  forlorn  and  deso- 
late air  about  it.  It  is  two  stories  high,  with 
small  windows,  and  the  whitewashed  stone  walls 
made  it  look  more  like  a  lazaretto  than  any  thing 
else.  Here  they  stopped  two  hours  to  feed  the 
horses  and  to  take  their  ddjeuner.  The  place 
was  at  this  time  kept  by  a  miserjible  old  man 
and  his  wife,  on  whom  the  unhealthy  atmosphere 
of  the  marshes  seemed  to  have  brought  a  prema- 
ture decay.  Obed  could  not  speak  Italian,  so 
that  he  was  debarred  from  the  pleasure  of  talk- 
ing with  this  man  ;  but  he  exhil)ited  much  sym- 
pathy toward  him,  and  made  him  a  present  of  a 
bundle  of  cigars  —  an  act  which  tiic  old  man 
viewed,  at  first,  with  absolute  incredulity,  and  at 
length  with  unutterable  gratitude. 

Leaving  this  place  they  drove  on  for  about 
two  miles,  when  suddenly  the  carriage  in  which 
Obed  and  the  family  were  traveling  fell  forward 
with  a  crash,  and  the  party  were  thrown  pell- 
mell  together.  The  horses  stopped.  No  injury 
was  done  to  any  one,  and  Obed  got  out  to  see 
what  had  taken  place.  The  front  axle  was 
broken. 

Here  was  a  veiy  awkward  dilemma,  and  it  was 
difficult  to  tell  what  ought  to  be  done.  There 
was  the  other  carriag*?,  but  it  was  small,  and 
could  not  contain  the  family.  The  two  maids, 
also,  would  have  to  be  left  behind.  01)ed  thought, 
at  first,  of  sending  on  his  family  and  waiting; 
but  he  soon  dismissed  this  idea.  For  the  pres- 
ent, at  least,  he  saw  that  they  would  have  to 
drive  back  to  the  inn,  and  this  they  finally  did. 
Here  Obed  exerted  all  his  ingenuity  and  all  his 
mechanical  skill  in  a  futile  endeavor  to  repair 
the  axle.  But  the  rough  patch  which  he  suc- 
ceeded at  last  in  making  was  s()  inefficient  that, 
on  attempting  to  start  once  more,  the  carriage 
agoin  broke  down,  and  they  were  forced  to  give 
up  this  hope. 


■•l»)o-'iV^t 


' 'TJij^'ijpfS'*?;^  T  f'^' 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


199 


Three  hours  had  now  passed  away,  and  it  had 
already  grown  altogether  too  late  to  think  of  try- 
ing to  finish  tlie  joiirnay.  Again  the  question 
arose,  what  was  to  be  done  ?  To  go  back  was 
now  as  iniich  out  of  the  question  as  to  go  for- 
ward. One  resource  only  seemed  left  them,  and 
tliat  was  to  stay  here  for  the  night,  and  send 
l)ack  to  Terracina  for  a  new  carriage.  This  de- 
cision (Jbed  finally  arrived  at,  and  he  communi- 
cated it  to  iiis  valet,  and  ordered  him  to  see  if 
they  could  have  any  accommodations  for  the  nigh  t. 

The  valet  seemed  somewhat  alarmed  at  this 
proposal. 

"It's  a  dangerous  place,"  said  he.  "The 
country  swarms  with  brigands.  We  had  better 
take  the  ladies  back." 

"Take  the  ladies  back !"  cried  Obed.  "  How 
can  we  d>  that?  We  can't  ail  cram  into  the 
small  carriage.  And,  besides,  as  to  danger — by 
tliis  time  it's  as  dangerous  on  the  road  as  it  is 
here." 

"Oh  no ;  travelers  will  be  upon  the  road — " 

"Pooh!  there's  no  danger  when  qye  is  inside 
of  a  stone  house  like  this.  Wire,  man,  this 
house  is  a  regular  fort.  Besides,  who  is  there 
that  would  attack  an  inn  '?" 

"The  brigands,"  said  the  valet.  "They're 
all  around,  prowling  about,  and  will  be  likely  to 
pay  a  visit  here.  This  house,  at  the  best  of 
times,  does  not  liave  a  good  name." 

"  Well,''  said  Obed,  "let  them  come  on." 

"  You  forget,  Sir,"  said  the  valet,  "  that  you 
are  alone." 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  Baid  Obed;  "I'm  well 
aware  that  I'm  alone." 

"But  you're  worse  than  alone,"  remonstrated 
the  valet,  earnestly.  "You  have  your  family. 
That  is  tiie  thing  that  makes  the  real  danger; 
for,  if  any  thing  happens  to  you,  what  will  be- 
come of  them  ?" 

"Pooh!"  said  Obed;  "there  are  plenty  of 
'  ifs'  whenever  any  man  is  on  the  look-out  for 
danger.  Now,  I  ain't  on  the  look-out.  Why 
should  I  trouble  m^'self  ?  Whenever  any  enemy 
shows  himself  I'll  be  ready.  If  a  man  is  always 
going  to  imagine  danger,  and  borrow  trouble, 
what  will  become  of  him?  This  place  seems  to 
me  the  best  jilace  for  the  family  now — far  better 
than  the  road,  at  any  rate.  I  wouldn't  have 
them  dragged  back  to  Terracina  on  any  account. 
It  '11  be  dark  long  before  we  get  there,  and  trav- 
eling by  night  on  the  Pontine  Marshes  ain't  par- 
ticularly hea'thy.  There's  less  risk  for  them 
here  than  any  where  else ;  so,  young  man,  you'd 
better  look  up  the  beds,  and  see  what  they  ^n 
do  for  us."  " 

The  valet  made  some  further  remonstrances ; 
he  described  the  ruthless  character  of  the  Italian 
brigands,  told  Obed  about  the  dangerous  condi- 
tion of  the  country,  hinted  that  the  old  man  and 
his  wife  were  themselves  possibly  in  alliance  with 
the  brigands,  and  again  urged  him  to  change  his 
plans.  But  Obed  was  not  moved  in  the  slightest 
degree  by  Aiese  representations.  He  had  con- 
sidered it  all,  he  said,  and  had  made  up  his  mind. 
As  lie  saw  it,  all  the  risk,  and  all  the  fatigue  too, 
which  was  quite  as  important  a  thing,  were  on 
the  road,  and  whatever  safety  there  was,  whether 
from  brigands  or  miasma,  lay  in  the  inn. 

The  valet  then  went  to  see  about  tiie  accom- 
modations for  the  party.  They  were  rude,  it  is 
true,  yet  sufficient  in  .such  an  emergency.     The 


old  man  and  his  wife  bestirred  them-  Ives  to 
make  every  thing  ready  for  the  un-xjiected 
guests,  and,  with  the  assistance  of  the  maids, 
their  rooms  were  prepared. 

After  this  the  vtilet  drove  back  with  the  vettu- 
rino,  1''  jmisiiig  to  come  us  early  as  possible  on 
the  following  day. 

During  Obed's  conversation  ..ith  the  valet  the 
ladies  had  been  in  the  hotel,  and  had  therefore 
heard  nothing  of  what  had  been  said.  They 
were  quite  ignorant  of  the  existence  of  any  dan- 
ger, and  Obed  thought  it  the  best  plan  to  keej) 
them  in  ignorance,  unless  actual  danger  should 
arise.  For  his  own  part,  he  had  meant  what  he 
said.  He  was  aware  that  there  was  danger ;  he 
knew  that  th.e  country  was  in  an  unsettled  and 
lawless  condition,  and  that  roving  bands  of  rob- 
bers were  scouring  the  papal  territories.  From 
the  very  consciousness  that  he  had  of  this  danger, 
he  had  decided  in  favor  of  stopping.  He  believed 
the  road  to  be  more  dangerous  than  the  inn.  If 
there  was  to  be  any  attack  of  brigands,  he  much 
preferred  to  receive  it  here ;  and  he  thought  this 
a  more  unlikely  place  for  such  an  attack  than 
any  other. 

The  warning  of  the  valet  made  a  pufficiently 
deep  impression  upon  him  to  cause  him  to  ex- 
amine very  carefully  the  position  of  his  rooms, 
and  the  general  a|)pearance  of  the  house.  The 
house  itself  was  as  strong  as  a  fortress,  and  a 
dozen  men,  well  posted,  could  have  defended  it 
against  a  thousand.  But  Obed  was  alone,  and 
had  to  consider  the  prospects  of  one  man  in  a 
defense.  The  rooms  which  he  occupied  favored 
this.  There  were  two.  One  was  a  large  one  at 
the  end  of  the  house,  lighted  by  one  small  win- 
dow. This  his  family  and  Zillah  occupied ;  some- 
what crowded,  it  is  true,  yet  not  at  all  uncom- 
fortable. A  wide  hearth  was  there,  and  a  blaz- 
ing peat  fire  kept  down  the  chill  of  the  marshy 
exhalations.  Outside  of  this  was  a  smaller  room, 
and  this  was  Obed's.  A  fire  was  burning  here 
also.  A  window  lighted  it,  and  a  stout  door 
opened  into  the  hull.  The  bed  was  an  old- 
fashioned  four -posted  structure  of  enormous 
weight. 

All  these  things  Obed  took  in  with  one  rapid 
glance,  and  saw  the  advantages  of  his  position. 
In  these  rooms,  with  his  revolver  and  his  ammu- 
nition, he  felt  quite  at  ease.  He  felt  somewhat 
grieved  at  that  moment  that  he  did  not  know 
Italian,  for  he  wished  very  much  to  ask  some 
questions  of  the  old  inn-keeper;  but  this  was  a 
misfortune  which  he  had  to  endure. 

As  long  as  the  daylight  lasted  Obed  wandered 
about  outside.  Then  dinner  came,  and  after 
that  the  time  hung  heavily  on  his  hands.  At 
last  he  went  to  his  room ;  the  family  had  re- 
tired some  time  before.  There  was  a  good  sup- 
ply of  peat,  and  with  this  he  replenished  the  fire. 
Then  ho  drew  the  massive  oaken  bedstead  in 
front  of  the  door,  and  lounged  upon  it,  smoking 
and  meditating. 

The  warnings  of  the  ralet  had  produced  this 

effect  at  least  upon  Obed,  that  he  had  concluded 

not  to  go  to  sleep.     He  determined  to  remain 

awake,  and  though  such  watchfulness  might  not 

[  be  needed,  yet  he  felt  that  for  his  family's  sake 

it  was  wisest  and  best.     To  sit  up  one  night,  or 

'■  rather  to  lounge  on  a  bed  smoking,  was  nothing, 

j  and   there  was   plenty  of  occupation  for  his 

,  thoughts. 


200 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


Time  passed  on.  Midnight  came,  and  no- 
tliing  had  occurred.  Another  hour  passed ;  and 
then  another.     It  was  two  o'clock. 

About  a  quarter  of  an  hour  after  this  Obed 
was  roused  by  a  sudden  knocking  at  the  door  of 
the  inn.  Shouts  followed.  He  heard  the  old 
man  descend  the  stairs.  Then  the  door  was 
opened,  and  loud  noisy  footsteps  were  heard  en- 
tering the  inn. 

At  this  (Jbed  began  to  feel  that  his  watchful- 
ness was  not  useless. 

Some  time  now  elapsed.  Those  who  had  come 
were  sufficiently  disorderly.  Shouts  and  cries 
and  yells  arose.  Obed  imagined  that  they  were 
refreshing  themselves.  He  tried  to  ^ueys  at  the 
])ossible  number,  and  thought  that  there  could 
not  be  more  than  v.  dozen,  if  so  many.  Yet  he 
iiiid  ucquireJ  such  -i  contemj  1  for  Italians,  and 
had  such  confidenca  in  himself,  that  he  felt  very 
much  the  same,  at  the  i)rospect  of  an  encounter 
with  them,  as  a  grown  man  might  feel  at  an  en- 
counter with  as  many  boys. 

During  this  time  he  made  no  change  in  his 
position.  His  revolver  was  in  his  breast  pocket, 
and  he  had  cartridges  enough  for  a  long  siege. 
He  smoked  still,  for  this  habit  was  a  deeply  con- 
firmed one  with  Obed  ;  and  lolling  at  the  foot  of 
the  bed,  with  his  head  against  the  wall,  he  await- 
ed further  developments. 

At  last  there  was  a  change  in  the  noise.  A 
silence  followed ;  a  .d  then  he  heard  footsteps 
moving  toward  the  hall.  He  listened.  The  foot- 
steps ascended  the  stairs ! 

They  ascended  the  stairs,  and  came  nearer  and 
nearer.  There  did  not  seem  to  be  so  many  as  a 
dozen.  Perhaps  some  remained  below.  Such 
were  his  tlioughts. 

They  came  toward  bis  room. 

At  length  he  heard  the  knob  of  the  door  turn- 
ing gently.     Of  course,  as  the  door  was  locked. 


only  some  brigands.  But  keep  cool.  I'll  take 
care  of  you.  Jr'erhaps  you'd  better  get  up  and 
dress,  though.  At  any  rate,  keep  cool.  You 
needn't  bother  as  long  us  you've  got  me." 


CHAPTER  LXI. 


AT  FLORENCE. 


Aftfr  her  accident  Hilda  was  carried  to  the 
nearest  house,  and  there  she  recovered,  after 
some  time,  from  her  swoon.  She  knew  nothing 
of  wliat  I  ord  Chetwynde  had  thought  and  done 
during  tltat  time  when  she  lay  in  his  arms,  and 
ho  had  lent  over  her  so  full  of  pity  and  sorrow. 
Some  t  ine  elapsed  beforf  she  saw  him,  for  he 
had  riiideu  olf  himself  to  i".3  nearest  town  to 
get  a  conveyau'je.  When  lie  returned  it  was 
very  late,  and  she  had  to  go  to  bed  tbrougii 
weakness.  And  thus  they  did  not  meet  until 
the  following  morning. 

When  they  did  meet  Lord  Chetwynde  asked 
kindly  about  her  health,  but  evinced  no  stronger 
feeling  than  kindness — or  pity.  She  was  pale 
and  sad ;  she  was  eager  for  some  sign  of  ten- 
derness, but  the  sign  was  not  forthcoming. 
Lord  Chetwynde  was  kind  and  sympathetic. 
He  tried  to  cheer  her;  he  exerted  himself  to 
please  her  and  to  soothe  her,  but  that  was  all. 
That  self-reproach  which  had  thrilled  him  as  she; 
lav  lifeless  in  his  arms  had  passed  as  soon  as  she 
left  those  arms,  and,  in  the  presence  of  the  one 
absorbing  passion  of  his  soul,  Hilda  was  no- 
thing. 

When  they  resumed  their  journey  it  was  ns 
before.  He  was  courteous  to  an  extreme.  He 
anticipated  her  wishes  and  saw  after  her  com- 
forts with  the  greatest  solicituue,  but  never  did 


he  evince  any  desire  to  i)ass  beyond  the  limits 
and  as  the  bed  was  in  front  of  it,  this  produced  of  conventional  politeness.  To  him  she  was 
no  effect.     On  Obed  the  only  effect  was  that  ho    simply  a  lady   traveling   in   his    company,   to 


sat  upright  and  drew  his  revolver  from  his  pock- 
C'   still  smoking. 

Then  followed  some  conversation  outside. 

Then  there  came  a  knock. 

"Who's  there?"  said  Obed,  mildly. 

"  Aperite !"  was  the  answer,  in  a  harsh  voice. 

"What?" 

"Aperite.  Siamo  poveri.  Date  vostro  ar- 
gento." 

"Me  don't  understand  /talian,"  said  Obed. 
"Me  American, 
blazes!" 

At  this  there  was  a  pause,  and  then  a  dull 
deep  crash,  as  if  the  whole  body  outside  had 
precipitated  themselves  against  the  door. 

Obed  held  his  pistol  quickly  toward  the  door 
opposite  the  thinnest  panel,  which  had  yie'ded 
slightly  to  that  blow,  and  fired. 

Once ! 

Twice! ! 

Thiice ! ! ! 

Three  explosions  burst  forth. 

And  then  came  sharp  and  sudden  deep  gi'oans 
of  pain,  intermingled  with  savage  yells  of  rnge. 
There  was  a  sound  as  of  bodies  falling,  and  re- 
treating footsteps,  and  ciu'ses  low  and  deep. 

Loud  outcries  came  from  the  adjoining  room. 
The  noise  had  awakened  the  family. 

Obed  stepped  to  the  door. 


whom  he  was  under  every  obligation,  as  far  as 
gratitude  was  concerned,  or  kindly  and  watchful 
attention,  but  toward  whom  no  feeling  of  tender- 
ness ever  arose. 

He  certainly  neglected  none  of  those  ordinnrj* 
acts  of  courteous  attention  which  are  common 
between  gentlemen  and  ladies.  At  Milan  he 
took  her  around  to  see  all  the  sights  of  that 
famous  city.  The  Breda  Palace,  the  Amphi- 
theatre, above  all,  the  Cathedral,  were  visited, 
Speeky  Englisli,  and  go  to  '  and  nothing  was  omitted  which  might  give  her 

pleasure.  Yet  all  this  was  different  from  what 
ilihad  been  before.  Since  the  accident  Hilda 
hftd  grown  more  sad,  and  lost  her  sprightliness 
and  enthusiasm.  On  first  recovering  her  senses 
she  had  learned  about  the  events  of  that  acci- 
dent, and  that  Lord  Chetwynde  had  tried  to 
bring  her  to  life  again.  She  had  hoped  much 
from  this,  and  had  fully  expected  when  she  saw 
him  again  to  find  in  him  something  softer  than 
before.  In  this  she  had  been  utterly  disap- 
pointed. Her  heart  now  sank  within  her,  and 
scarcely  any  hope  was  left.  Languid  and  dull, 
she  tried  no  longer  to  win  Lord  Chetwynde  by 
brilliancy  of  conversotion,  or  by  enthusiastic  in- 


These  had  failed  once ;  why  should  she  try 
them  agoin  ?  And  since  be  had  been  unmoved 
by  the  spectacle  of  her  lifeless  foi-m — the  narrow 


"Don't  be  afraid,"  said  ho,  quietly.     "It's   escape  from  death  of  one  who  he  well  know 


THE  CRYrTOGRAM. 


201 


e  by 
c  in- 
iirt. 
try 
oved 
rrow 
know 


would  die  to  save  him — what  was  there  left  for 
iier  to  do  ? 

At  leiig.h  they  resumed  their  jouniey,  and  in 
due  time  readied  Florenco.  Here  new  changes 
took  i)luee.  Tiieir  arrival  here  terminated  that 
close  association  enforced  hy  their  journey  which 
had  been  so  precious  to  Hilda.  Here  Lord  Chet- 
wynde  of  course  di'ifted  away,  and  she  could 
not  liope  to  see  him  except  at  certain  stated  in- 
tervals. Now  more  than  ever  she  began  to  lose 
hojie.  The  hopes  that  she  iiad  once  formed 
seemed  now  to  be  baseless.  And  why,  she 
asked  herself  bitterly — why  was  it  so  Impossible 
for  him  to  love  lier?  Would  not  any  other  man 
have  loved  her  under  such  circumstance.  ? 

At  Florence  Lord  Chetwynde  went  his  own 
way.  He  visited  most  of  the  places  of  interest 
in  company  with  her,  took  her  to  tl.e  Huomo, 
the  Church  of  Santa  Croce,  the  Pala^zi  Vecchio 
and  Pitti,  walked  with  her  through  the  picture- 
galleries,  and  drove  out  with  her  several  times. 
After  this  there  was  nothing  more  to  be  done, 
and  he  was  left  to  his  own  resources,  and  she, 
necessarily,  to  hers.  She  could  not  tell  where 
he  went,  but  merely  conjectured  that  he  was 
idling  about  without  any  pa-'icular  purpose,  in 
the  character  of  a  common  sight-seer. 

Hilda  thus  at  length,  left  so  much  to  herself, 
without  the  joy  of  his  presence  to  soften  her, 
grew  gradually  hopeless  and  desperate;  and 
there  began  to  rise  within  her  bitter  feelings, 
like  those  of  former  days.  In  the  midst  of 
these  her  darker  nature  made  itself  manifest, 
and  there  came  the  vengeful  promjitings  of 
outraged  love.  With  her  vengeance  meant 
sonietliiiig  more  than  it  did  with  common  char- 
acters ;  anil  when  that  fit  was  on  her  there  came 
regrets  that  she  had  ever  left  Chetwynde,  and 
gloomy  ideas  about  completing  her  interrupted 
work  after  all.  But  these  feelings  were  fitful, 
for  at  times  hope  would  return  again,  and 
tenderness  take  the  place  of  vindictiveness. 
From  hv/pe  she  would  again  sink  into  despair, 
and  sometimes  meditate  upon  that  dark  resolve 
which  she  had  once  hinted  to  Gualtier  at  the 
Hotel  Gibbon. 

Amidst  all  this  her  pride  was  roused.  Why 
should  she  remain  in  this  (losition — a  hanger-on 
— forcing  herself  on  an  unwilling  man  who  at 
best  only  tolerated  her?  The  only  soft  feeling 
for  her  that  had  ever  ari.sen  in  his  heart  was 
nothing  more  than  pity  Could  she  hope  that 
ever  this  pity  would  vh  nge  to  love,  or  that  even 
the  pity  itself  would  '  st?  Was  he  not  even 
now  longing  to  get  rid  v  "  her,  and  impatiently 
awaiting  tidings  of  his  Indian  appointment? 
To  go  to  India,  she  saw  plainly,  simjily  meant 
to  get  rid  of  her.  This,  she  saw,  was  his  fixed 
determination.  And  for  her — why  should  she 
thus  remain,  so  deeply  humiliated,  when  she  was 
not  wanted  ? 

So  she  argued  with  herself,  but  still  she  staid 
on.  For  love  nnikes  the  ])roudest  a  craven,  and 
turns  the  strength  of  the  strongest  into  weak- 
ness ;  and  so,  in  spite  of  herself,  she  staid,  be- 
cause she  could  not  go. 

Meanwhile  the  state  of  Lord  Chetwynde's 
mind  was  not  by  any  means  enviable.  He 
found  himself  in  a  position  which  was  at  once 
unexpected  and,  to  him,  extremel}'  embarrass- 
ing. Every  feeling  of  gratitude,  every  prompt- 
ing of  common  generosity,  compelled  him  to 


exhibit  toward  Hilda  a  greater  degree  of  kind- 
ness than  existed  in  his  lieart.  The  association 
of  a  long  journey  had  necessarily  thrown  him 
upon  her  society,  and  there  had  been  times 
when  he  had  foimd  her  agreeable;  there  had 
also  been  that  memorable  episode  when  her 
poor,  pale  face,  with  its  stain  of  blood  over  the 
white  forehead,  had  drawn  forth  his  deepest 
pity,  and  roused  him  to  some  a])proach  to  ten- 
derress.  l?ut  with  the  occasion  the  feeling  had 
passed ;  and  the  tenderness,  born  of  so  jjiteous 
a  sight,  returned  no  more.  Her  own  uidlness 
I  afterward  deprived  him  even  of  the  chance  of 
finding  her  an  agreeable  compi.nion.  He  saw 
that  she  was  deeply  melancholy.  Yet  what 
could  he  do  ?  Even  if  he  had  wisiied  it  he  could 
not  have  forced  himself  to  love  this  woman, 
notwithstanding  her  devotion  to  himself  And 
this  he  did  not  even  wish.  Not  all  his  sense  of 
honor,  not  all  his  emotions  of  gratitude,  not  all 
his  instincts  of  generosity,  not  even  the  remem- 
brance of  his  solemn  promise  to  (General  I'om- 
eroy,  could  excite  within  him  any  desire  that 
his  heart  might  change  from  its  nttection  and 
its  longing  for  another,  to  yield  that  love  to  her. 
True,  once  or  twice  his  heart  had  smote  him 
as  he  thought  of  his  utter  coldness  and  want  of 
gratitude  toward  this  womim  who  had  done  so 
much  for  him.  This  feeling  was  very  painful 
on  that  day  of  the  accident.  Yet  it  jmssed.  Ho 
could  not  force  himself  to  muse  over  his  own 
shortcomings.  He  could  not  bring  himself  to 
wish  that  he  should  L,e  one  whit  more  grutefid  to 
her  or  more  tender.  Any  thought  of  her  being 
ever  more  to  him  than  she  was  now  seemed  re- 
pugnant. Any  wish  for  it  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. Indeed,  he  never  thought  of  it  as  being 
within  the  bounds  of  possibility.  For  behind  all 
i  these  late  events  there  lay  certain  things  which 
1  made  it  impossible  for  him,  under  ordinary  cir- 
1  cumstances,  ever  to  become  fully  reconciled  to  her. 
For,  after  all,  in  his  cooler  moods  ho  now  felt 
!  how  she  was  associated  with  the  bitterest  meino- 
'  ries  of  his  life.  She  it  was  who  had  been  the 
cause,  unwilling  no  doubt  as  he  tiow  though',  but 
I  still  no  less  the  cause  of  the  blight  that  had  de- 
'  scended  upon  his  life.  As  that  life  had  i)assed 
!  he  could  not  help  cursing  the  day  when  first 
General  Pomeroy  proposed  that  unholy  agree- 
ment. It  was  this  that  had  exiled  him  from  his 
native  land  and  would  keep  him  an  exile  forever. 
I  It  was  this  which  denied  to  him  the  joys  of  vir- 
tuous love,  when  his  heart  had  been  filled  with 
one  image — an  image  which  now  was  never  ab- 
sent. Bound  by  the  law  to  this  woman,  who 
was  named  his  wife,  he  could  never  hope  in  any 
way  to  gain  that  other  one  on  whom  all  his  heart 
was  fixed.  Jietween  him  and  tho.se  hojics  that 
made  life  precious  she  stood  tind  rendered  those 
ho])es  impossible. 

Then,  too,  he  could  not  avoid  recalling  his 
life  in  India,  which  she  had  tried  to  make,  as 
far  as  in  her  lay,  one  long  misery,  by  those 
malevolent  letters  which  she  had  never  ceased 
to  write.  Above  all,  he  could  never  forget  the 
horror  of  indignation  which  had  been  awakened 
within  him  by  that  last  letter,  and  the  fierce 
vows  which  he  had  made  to  be  avenged  on  her. 
All  this  was  yet  in  his  memory  in  spite  of  the 
events  of  later  days.  True,  she  had  relented 
from  her  former  savage  spirit,  and  had  changed 
from  hate  to  love.     She  had  traveled  far  to  save 


il   '.     . 


202 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


I' 


him  from  death.  She  had  watched  by  him  day 
and  niglit  till  her  own  life  well-nigh  gave  way. 
She  Imd  repented,  and  had  marked  her  repent- 
ance by  a  devotion  which  could  not  be  surpassed. 
For  all  this  he  felt  grateful.  His  gratitude,  in- 
deed, had  been  so  profound  nnJ  so  sincere  that 
it  had  risen  up  between  him  and  his  just  hate, 
and  had  forced  him  to  forgive  her  fully  and  free- 
ly, and  to  the  uttermost,  for  all  that  she  hat'  doue 
of  her  own  accord,  and  also  for  all  of  which  she 
had  been  the  accidental  cause.  He  had  lost  hi," 
repugiuince  to  her.  He  could  now  talk  to  her, 
he  could  even  take  her  hand,  and  could  have 
transient  emotions  of  tenderness  toward  her. 
IJut  what  then?  What  was  the  value  of  these 
feelings?  He  had  forgiven  her,  but  he  had  not 
forgotten  the  past.  That  was  impossible.  The 
memory  of  that  past  still  remained,  and  its  re- 
sults we.  )till  before  him.  He  felt  those  results 
every  hour  of  his  life.  Above  all,  she  still  stood 
before  him  as  the  one  thing,  and  the  only  thing, 
which  formed  an  obstacle  between  him  and  his 
happiness.  He  might  pity  her,  he  might  be 
grateful  to  her;  but  the  intense  fervor  of  one 
passion,  and  the  longing  desire  to  which  it  gave 
rise,  made  it  impossible  for  her  ever  to  seem  to 
him  any  thing  else  than  the  curse  of  his  life. 

At  Florence  he  was  left  more  to  himself.  He 
was  no  longer  forced  to  sit  by  her  side.  He 
gradually  kept  by  himself;  for,  though  he  could 
tolerate  her,  he  could  not  seek  her.  Indeed,  his 
own  feelings  impelled  him  to  avoid  her.  The 
image  of  that  one  who  never  left  his  memory 
had  such  an  effect  on  him  that  he  preferred  soli- 
tude and  his  own  thoughts.  In  this  way  he 
could  best  struggle  with  himself  and  arrange 
his  lonely  and  desolate  future.  India  now  ap- 
])eared  the  one  hope  that  was  left  him.  There 
he  might  find  distraction  from  troublesome 
thoughts  hi  his  old  occupations,  and  among  his 
old  associates.  He  had  bidden  farewell  to  ('het- 
wynde  forever.  He  had  left  the  fate  of  Chet- 
wynde  in  the  hands  of  hia  solicitors ;  he  had 
signed  away  all  his  rights ;  he  had  broken  the 
entail ;  and  had  faced  the  prospect  of  the  ex- 
tinction of  his  ancient  family.  This  resolution 
had  cost  him  so  much  that  it  was  impossible 
now  to  go  back  from  it.  The  exhibition  of  Hil- 
da's devotion  never  changed  his  resolution  for 
an  instant.  The  papers  still  remained  with  his 
solicitors,  nor  did  he  for  one  moment  dream  of 
countermanding  the  orders  which  he  had  once 
given. 

What  Lord  Chetwynde  most  desir  •"s  soli- 
tude. Florence  had  been  chosen  by  .....i  as  a 
resting-place  where  he  might  await  letters  from 
England  about  his  Indian  appointment,  and  for 
those  letters  he  waited  every  day.  Under  these 
circumstances  he  avoided  all  society.  He  had 
taken  unpretending  lodgings,  and  in  the  Hotel 
Meul)Ies,  overlooking  the  I'onta  dolla  Trinita, 
he  was  lost  in  the  crowd  of  fellow-lodgers.  His 
suite  of  apartments  extended  over  the  third  story, 
lielow  him  was  a  Russian  Prince  and  .  German 
Grand  Duke,  and  abo\e  nnd  all  around  was  a 
crowd  of  travelers  of  all  nations.  He  brought 
no  letters.  He  desired  no  acquaintances.  Flor- 
ence, under  the  new  re'gime,  was  too  much  agi- 
tated by  recent  changes  for  its  noblesse  to  pay 
any  attention  to  a  stranger,  however  distinguished, 
unless  ho  was  forced  upon  them ;  and  so  Lord 
Chetwynde  had  the  most  complete  isolation.    If 


Hilda  had  ever  had  any  ideas  of  going  with  Lord 
Chetwynde  into  Florentine  society  she  was  soon 
undeceived,  when,  as  the  days  jiassed,  she  found 
that  F'lorentine  society  took  no  notice  of  her. 
Whatever  disappointment  she  may  have  felt. 
Lord  Chetwynde  only  received  gratification  from 
this,  since  it  spared  him  every  annoyance,  and 
left  him  to  himself,  after  the  first  week  or  so. 

By  himself  he  thus  occu]iied  his  time.  He 
rode  sometimes  through  the  beautiful  country 
^^hl.'l  I  urroiuids  Florence  on  every  side.  When 
weary  of  liiis  he  used  to  stroll  about  the  city, 
along  the  Lungli'  Arno,  or  through  the  Casino,  or 
among  the  chuiches.  But  his  tavorite  place  of 
resort  was  the  Boboh  Gardens ;  for  here  there 
was  sufficient  life  and  movement  to  be  found 
amv)ng  the  throng  of  visitors ;  or,  if  he  wished 
seclusion,  he  could  find  solitude  among  the  se- 
(piestered  groves  and  romantic  grottoes  of  this 
enchanting  spot. 

Here  one  day  he  wandered,  and  found  a  place 
among  the  trees  which  commanded  a  view  of 
one  of  the  principal  avenues  of  tiie  gardens.  In 
the  distance  there  opened  a  vista  through  which 
was  "ovealed  the  fair  outline  of  Florence,  with 
its  encircling  hills,  and  its  glorious  Val  d'Arno. 
There  arose  the  stupendous  outline  of  II  Duomo, 
the  stately  form  of  the  Baptistery,  the  graceful 
shaft  of  the  Campanile,  the  medieval  grandeur 
of  the  Palazzo  Vecchio ;  and  the  severe  Etrnscan 
massiveness  of  the  Pitti  Palace  was  just  below. 
Far  away  the  Anio  wound  on,  through  the  ver- 
durous plain,  while  on  either  side  the  hills  arose 
dotted  with  white  villas  and  deep  green  olive 
groves.  Is  there  any  view  on  earth  which  can 
surpass  this  one,  where 

"Arno  wins  ns  to  the  fair  white  walls, 

Wtiere  the  Etrurian  Athena  claims  and  keeps 
A  softer  feeling  for  her  fairy  halls. 
Girt  by  her  theatre  ot  hills,  she  reaps 
Her  corn  and  wine  and  oil,  and  Plenty  leaps 
To  laughing  life,  with  her  redundant  horn. 

Along  the  banks  where  smiling  Arno  sweeps 
Was  modern  Luxury  of  Commerce  born, 
And  buried  Learning  rose,  redeemed,  to  a  new  moiTi." 

It  was  upon  this  scene  that  Lord  Chetwynde 
was  looking  out,  lost  in  thoughts  which  were 
sometimes  taken  up  with  the  historic  charms  t)f 
this  unrivaled  valley,  and  sometimes  wiili  his 
own  sombre  future,  when  suddenlj  his  attention 
was  arrested  by  a  figure  passing  along  the  path- 
way immediately  beneath  hitn.  The  new-comer 
was  a  tall,  broati-shouklered,  square-faced  man  ; 
he  wore  a  dress-coat  and  a  felt  hat ;  he  had  no 
gloves,  but  his  thumbs  were  inserted  in  the  arm- 
holes  of  his  waistcoat ;  and  as  he  sauntered  along 
he  looked  around  with  a  leisurely  yet  compre- 
hensive stare.  Lord  Chetwynde  was  seated  in  a 
place  which  made  him  unseen  to  any  in  the  path, 
while  it  att'orded  him  the  fullest  opportunities  of 
seeing  others.  This  man,  who  thus  walked  on, 
turned  his  full  face  toward  him  and  disclosed  the 
well-known  features  of  Obed  Chute. 

The  sight  of  this  man  sent  a  strange  thrill  to 
the  inmost  heart  of  Lord  Chetwynde.  J  le  here  I 
In  Florence !  And  his  family,  were  they  with 
him  ?  And  she — when  he  saw  him  in  London 
he  said  that  she  was  yet  with  him — was  she  with 
him  now  ?  Such  were  the  thoughts  which  came 
to  Lord  Chetwynde  at  the  sight  of  that  face. 
The  next  instant  he  rose,  hurried  down  to  the 
path  after  Obed,  who  had  strode  onward  and 
catching  his  arm,  he  said  : 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


203 


"Mr.  Chute,  you  here!  When  did  you  ar- 
rive?" 

Obed  turned  with  a  start  and  saw  his  friend. 

"Windham  again;"  lit  exdainieil,  "l>y  all 
th(;tV  \»onder*'jl;     M'lt  hnw  did  you  get  here?" 

"I?  Oh,  I've  been  hire  two  or  three  weeks. 
But  it  doesn't  .seem  po8sil)ie  tliat  it  should  really 
be  yon,"  he  added,  with  greater  warmth  than 
was  usual  to  him,  as  he  wrung  Obed's  hand. 

"It's  possible,''  said  Obed,  with  a  character- 
istic squeeze  of  Lord  Chetwynde's  hand,  which 
•nade  it  numb  for  half  an  hour  afterward.  "  It's 
possible,  my  boy,  for  it's  the  actual  fact.  But 
still,  I  must  say,  you're  about  the  last  mati  I  ex- 
pected to  see  in  these  diggins.  When  I  saw  you 
in  London  you  were  up  to  your  eyes  in  business, 
and  were  expectin'  to  start  straight  oil'  and  make 
a  bee-line  for  India." 

"  Well,  that  is  what  I'm  doing  now;  I'm  on 
my  way  there." 

"On  your  way  there?  You  don't  say  so! 
But  you'll  stay  here  some  time?" 

"  Oh  yes ;  I've  some  little  time  to  spare.  The 
fact  is  I  came  here  to  pass  my  leisure  time.  I'm 
expecting  a  letter  every  day  which  may  send  me 
oft".     But  it  may  not  come  for  weeks." 

"  And  you're  going  back  to  India?"  said  Obed. 

"Yes.'' 

"I  should  think  you'd  rather  stay  home — 
among  your  friends." 

' '  Well — I  don't  know, "  said  Lord  Chetwynde, 
with  assumed  indift'erence.  "The  fact  is,  life  in 
India  unfits  one  for  Hfe  in  England.  We  get 
new  tastes  and  acquire  new  habits.  I  never  yet 
saw  a  returned  Indian  who  could  be  content. 
For  my-part,  I'm  too  young  yet  to  go  in  for  be- 
ing a  returned  Indian ;  and  so  after  1  finished 
my  business  I  applied  for  a  reappointment." 

"There's  a  good  deal  in  what  you  say,"  re- 
marked Obed.  "Your  British  island  is  con- 
tracted. A  man  who  has  lived  in  a  country  like 
India  feels  this.  We  Americans,  accustomed  as 
we  are  to  the  unlimited  atmosphere  of  a  bound- 
less continent,  al«'ays  feel  depressed  in  a  country 
like  England.  There  is  in  your  country,  Sir,  a 
jihysical  and  also  a  moral  constraint  which,  to  a 
free,  republican,  continental  American,  is  suffo- 
cating. And  hence  my  dislike  to  the  mother 
country." 

They  walked  on  together  chatting  about  nu- 
merous things.  Obed  referred  once  more  to 
India. 

"It's  queer,"  said  he ;  "your  British  Empire 
is  so  tremendous  that  it  seems  to  cover  the  earth. 
After  I  left  the  States  it  seemed  to  me  that  I 
couldn't  go  any  where  without  seeing  the  British 
flag.  There  was  Australia,  a  continent  in  itself; 
and  Hong  Kong ;  and  India,  another  continent ; 
and  Aden,  and  Malta.  You  have  a  small  coun- 
try too,  not  much  larger  than  New  York  State." 

"  Well,"  said  Lord  Chetwynde,  with  a  smile, 
"we  once  owned  a  great  deal  more,  you  know. 
We  had  colonies  that  were  worth  all  the  rest. 
Unfortunately  those  colonies  took  it  into  their 
heads  to  set  up  for  themselves,  and  started  that 
independent  nation  of  the  Stars  and  Stripes  that 
you  belong  to.  If  it  hadn't  been  for  that  abom- 
inable Stamp  Act,  and  other  acts  equally  abom- 
inable, you  and  1  might  now  be  under  the  same 
flag,  belonging  to  an  empire  which  might  set  the 
whole  united  world  at  defiance.  It's  a  pity  it 
was  not  so.     The  only  iiope  now  left  is  that  our 


countries  may  always  be  good  friends,  as  they  are 
now,  as  you  and  I  are — as  we  always  are,  when- 
ever we  meet  under  such  circumstances  as  tho;;e 
which  occurred  when  you  and  1  became  acquaint- 
ed. '  Blood  is  thicker  than  water,'  said  old  Tat^ 
nail,  when  he  sent  his  Yankee  sailors  fo  helji 
Admiral  Hope ;  and  the  same  sentiment  is  still 
in  the  mind  of  every  true  Englisliman  whenever 
he  sees  an  American  of  the  right  sort." 

"  Them's  my  sentiments,'"  said  Obed,  heartily. 
"  And  altho!i^;h  I  don't  generally  hanker  after 
Britishers,  yet  I  have  a  kind  of  respect  for  tlie 
old  country,  in  spite  of  its  narrowness  and  con- 
traction, and  all  the  more  when  I  see  that  it  can 
turn  out  men  like  you." 

After  a  short  stroll  the  two  seated  themselves 
in  a  quiet  setpiestered  place,  and  had  a  long  con- 
versation. Obed  informed  him  of  the  manv  events 
which  had  occurred  since  their  last  meeting;.  The 
news  about  Black  Bill  was  received  by  Lord  Chet- 
wynde with  deep  surprise,  and  he  had  a  strong 
hope  that  this  might  lead  to  the  cajjture  of  Gual- 
tier.  Little  did  he  suspect  the  close  connection 
which  he  had  had  with  the  princii)als  in  this 
crime. 

He  then  questioned  Obed,  with  deep  interest, 
about  his  life  in  Naples,  about  his  journey  to 
Florence,  and  many  other  things,  with  the  pur- 
pose of  drawing  him  on  to  sjieak  about  one  whom 
he  could  not  name  without  emotion,  but  about 
whom  he  longed  to  hear.  01)ed  said  nothing 
about  her;  but,  in  the  course  of  the  conversa- 
tion, he  told  all  about  that  affair  in  the  Pontine 
Marshes,  in  which  be  recently  vanished  from 
view  at  a  very  critical  moment. 

Obed's  account  was  given  with  his  usual  mod- 
esty ;  for  this  man,  wl.o  was  often  so  grandilo- 
(juent  on  the  subject  of  his  country,  was  very 
meek  on  the  subject  of  himself.  To  give  his  own 
words  would  be  to  assign  a  very  unimportant 
part  to  the  chief  actor  in  a  very  remarkable  af- 
fair, so  that  the  facts  themselves  may  be  more 
api)ropriately  stated.  These  facts  Lord  Chet- 
wynde gathered  from  Obed's  narrative  in  spite 
of  his  extreme  modesty. 

After  Obed's  shot,  then,  there  had  been  silence 
for  a  titne,  or  rather  inaction  among  the  assail- 
ants. The  agitation  of  his  family  excited  his  sym- 
pathy, and  once  more  he  reassured  them,  telling 
them  that  the  att'air  was  not  worth  thinking  about, 
and  lu'ging  them  to  be  calm.  His  words  in.spired 
courage  among  them,  and  they  nil  arose  and 
dressed.  Their  room  was  at  the  end  of  the  build- 
ing, as  has  been  said.  Obed's  room  adjoined  it, 
and  the  only  entrance  into  their  room  was  through 
his.  A  narrow  passage  ran  from  the  central  hall 
as  far  as  the  wall  of  their  room,  and  on  the  side 
of  the  passage  was  the  door  which  le.l  into 
Obed's. 

After  putting  some  more  peat  on  the  fire,  he 
called  to  his  sister  to  watch  at  the  window  of  her 
room,  and  then  replenishing  his  pipe,  and  load- 
ing the  discharged  chambers  of  his  revolver,  he 
awaited  the  renewal  of  hostilities.  The  long  si- 
lence that  followed  showed  him  that  his  fire  had 
been  very  serious,  and  he  began  to  think  that 
they  would  not  return.  So  the  time  passed  un- 
til five  o'clock  come.  The  women  in  the  adjoin- 
ing room  were  perfectly  silent,  but  watchful,  and 
apparently  calm.  Below  there  were  occasional 
sounds  of  footsteps,  which  shov,ed  that  the  as- 
sailants were  still  in  the  place.     Tlie  excitement 


*^: 


•IA',"*,'lv"'  ,'.  V' 


•"•■:f'f-ri7-7<fPir- 


204 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


"to  spring   FOKWAKl)  WITH   LEVELED    PISTOL   UPON   UI8  ASSAILANTS    WAS   THE   WOUK 

OF   A   MOMENT." 


of  the  occasion  was  ratliev  agreeable  to  Obed 
than  otherwise.  He  felt  that  he  had  the  advant- 
age in  every  respect,  and  was  certain  that  there 
could  not  be  very  many  assailants  below.  Their 
long  delay  in  resuming  the  assault  showed  that 
they  were  cowed. 

At  last,  however,  to  his  intense  gratification, 
he  heard  footsteps  on  the  stairs.  He  knew  by 
the  sonnd  that  there  could  not  be  more  than  four, 
or  perhaps  six.  When  near  his  door  the  foot- 
steps stopped.  Tiiere  was  a  momentary  silence, 
and  then  suddenly  a  tremendous  blow,  and  a 
panel  of  the  door  crashed  in  at  the  stroke  of  an 
axe,  the  head  of  which  followed  it.  Quick  as 
lightning  Obed  took  aim.  He  saw  how  the  axe 
had  fallen,  and  judged  exactly  tlie  jwsition  of 
the  man  that  dealt  the  blow.  lie  fired.  A  shriek 
followed.  That  shot  had  told.  Wild  cur.ies 
arose.  There  was  a  mad  rush  at  the  door,  and 
again  the  axe  fell. 

Once  more  Obed  watched  the  fall  of  the  axe 
and  fired.  Again  that  shot  told.  There  were 
groans  and  shrieks  of  rage,  and  deep,  savage 
curses. 

And  now  at  last  Obed  rose  to  the  level  of  the 
occasion.   He  rapidly  reloaded  the  emptied  cham- 


bers of  his  revolver.  Stepping  to  the  door  of  the 
inner  room  he  spoke  seme  soothing  words,  and 
then  hurrying  back,  he  drew  the  ponderous  bed- 
stead away.  Outside  he  heard  shuttling,  as  of 
footsteps,  and  thought  they  might  be  dragging 
away  those  who  had  been  wounded  last.  All 
this  had  been  done  in  a  moment.  To  unlock 
the  door,  to  spring  forward  with  leveled  pistol 
upon  his  assailants,  was  but  the  work  of  another 
moment. 

It  was  now  di:,n  morning  twilight.  The  scene 
outside  was  plainly  revealed.  Tliere  were  three 
men  dragging  away  two — those  two  who  had  i)eeu 
wounded  by  the  last  shots.  On  these  Obed  sprang. 
One  went  down  before  his  shot.  The  others, 
with  a  cry  of  terror,  ran  down  the  stairs,  and  out 
of  the  house.  Obed  pin-sued.  They  ran  wildly 
up  the  road.  Again  Obed  fired,  and  one  wretcii 
fell.  Then  i'e  put  the  revolver  in  his  pocket, 
and  chased  the  other  man.  The  distance  be- 
tween them  lessened  rapidly.  At  last  Obed  came 
up.  He  reached  out  his  arm  and  caught  him  by 
the  collar.  With  a  shriek  of  terror  the  scoun- 
drel stopped,  and  fell  on  his  knees,  uttering  frantic 
prayers  for  mercy,  of  which  Obed  understood  not 
one  word.     He  draggeil  him  back  to  the  house, 


-in^>|l|IPH|B^«^iiiipiiiii«iiii>) juivfipiii  III.  I  y  I 


-y 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


aoff 


tlic 
iiiul 
bed- 

of 


1(1  out 
vildly 
■retell 
icket, 
be- 
came 
im  by 
coim- 
inntic 
)d  not 
lOUse, 


round  n  rope  in  the  stiiblo,  bound  him  securely, 
and  put  biin  in  the  diniiijf-room.  'i'lien  he  went 
about  to  neek  the  landlord.  He  coi'ld  not  be 
found.  Hoth  he  and  hi.s  wife  hud  apparently 
tied.     Hut  Obed  found  something  else. 

In  a  lower  room  that  opened  into  the  uiniiiK- 
room  were  three  men  on  two  beds,  wounJed, 
fiiint,  and  shivering  with  terror.  These  were  the 
men  that  had  been  wounded  at  the  first  attack. 
In  the  anguish  of  their  pain  they  made  gestures 
of  entreaty,  of  which  Obed  too!.,  nv  notice.  Up 
stairs  in  the  hall  were  those  two  wl\om  he  had 
struck  with  his  last  shots.  Tlier",  wore  no  others 
to  be  seen. 

After  finishing  his  search,  Obed  went  up  the 
road,  and  carried  buck  the  man  whom  he  had 
shot.  Ho  then  informed  his  family  of  the  result. 
In  the  midst  of  their  horror  at  this  tragedy,  and 
their  joy  at  escaping  from  a  terrible  fate,  they 
felt  n  certain  pity  for  these  sutt'erera,  wretches 
though  they  were.  Obed  shared  this  feeling. 
His  anger  had  all  departed  with  the  end  of  the 
tight.  He  lifted  one  by  one  the  wounded  wretches, 
jiutting  them  on  the  beds  in  the  rooms  which  he 
had  hired.  Then  he  and  his  sister  dressed  their 
woimds.  Thus  the  night  ended,  and  the  sun  at 
last  arose. 

About  two  hours  after  sunrise  it  happened  that 
a  troop  of  papal  gendarmerie  came  along.  Obed 
stopjied  them,  and  calmly  banded  over  the  pris- 
oners to  their  care.  They  seemed  bewildered, 
but  took  charge  of  them,  evidently  n(  at  all 
comprehending  the  situation.  An  hour  or  so 
afterward  the  valet  arrived  with  a  fresh  carriage, 
and  after  hearing  Obed's  story  with  wonder  he 
was  able  to  explain  it  to  the  soldiers. 

Obed  then  set  out  for  Itome,  and,  after  some 
stay,  came  on  to  Florence. 

iSuch  was  the  substance  of  his  story. 


CHATTER  LXII. 

THE    VILLA. 

t 

Th!5RE  were  many  things  in  Obed  Chute's 
narration  which  attected  Lord  Chetwynde  pro- 
foundly.    The  story  of  that  adventure  in  the 
Pontine  Marshes  had  an  interest  for  him  which 
was  greater  than  any  that  might  be  created  by 
the  magnificent  prowess  and  indomitable  ])lnck 
that  had  been  exhibited  on  that  occasion  by  the 
modest  narrator.     Beneath  the  careless  and  off- 
hand recital  of  Obed  Lord  Chetwynde  was  able 
to  perceive  the  full  extent  of  the  danger  to  which  • 
he  had  been  ex])osed,  and  from  which  his  own 
cool  courage  had  saved  liim.     An  ordinary  man,  j 
under  such   circumstances,  wonld  have  basely 
yielded  ;  or,  if  the  presence  of  his  family  had  in-  ' 
8])ired  him  with  unusual  courage,  the  courage 
would  have  been  at  best  a  sort  of  fiouzy,  at  the  ; 
impulse  of  which  be  might  have  devoted  his  own 
life  to  the  love  which  he  had  for  his  family,  and 
thrown  that  life  away  without  saving  them.     But 
in  Obed's  (piiet  and  unpretending  narrative  he  [ 
recognized  the  presence  of  an  heroic  soul ;  one 
which  in  the  midst  of  the  most  chivalrous,  the 
most  absolute,  and  the  most  perfect  devotion — , 
in  the  midst  of  the  most  utter  abnegation  of  self- 
could  still  maintain  the  serenest  calm  and  the  j 
most  complete  presence  of  mind  in  the  face  of 
awful  danger.     Every  point  in  tliat  story  pro- 1 


duced  an  effect  on  the  mind  of  the  listener,  and 
roused  his  fullest  sympathy.  He  had  before  his 
eyes  that  memorable  scene :  Obed  watching  and 
smoking  on  his  bed  by  the  side  of  the  door — the 
family  sleeping  peacefully  in  the  adjoining  room 
— the  .<ound  of  footsteps,  of  violent  knockings, 
if  furious  entrance,  of  wild  and  lawless  mirth. 
He  i:nagined  the  flight  of  the  old  man  and  his 
wife,  who  ill  terror,  or  jierhaps  through  cunning 
and  irpache.T,  gave  up  their  hotel  and  their 
guests  to  the  fury  of  the  brigands.  He  brought 
before  his  mind  that  long  time  of  watchful  wait- 
ing when  Obed  lay  ((uietly  yet  vigilantly  reclin- 
ing on  the  bed,  with  bis  pipe  in  liis  mouth  and 
his  pistol  in  his  pocket,  listening  to  the  sounds 
below,  to  see  what  they  might  foreshadow ;  wheth- 
er they  told  of  peace  or  of  war,  whether  they  an- 
nounced the  calm  of  a  (jniet  'light  or  the  terrors 
of  an  assault  made  by  fiends — by  those  Italian 
brigands  whose  name  has  become  a  horror, 
whose  tcnderest  mercies  are  pitiless  cruelty,  and 
to  fall  into  the  hands  of  whom  is  the  direst  fate 
that  man  or  woman  may  know. 

One  thought  gave  a  horror  to  this  narrative. 
Among  the  women  in  that  room  was  the  one 
who  to  him  was  infinitely  dearer  than  any  other 
upon  earth.  And  this  danger  had  thrcatene<l 
her — a  danger  too  horrible  to  think  of — one  which 
made  his  very  life-blood  freeze  in  the  course  of 
this  calm  narration.  This  was  the  one  thing  on 
which  his  thoughts  turned  most;  that  horrible, 
that  appalling  danger.  So  fearful  was  it  to  hi  in 
that  he  envied  Obed  the  privilege  of  having  saved 
her.  lie  longed  to  have  been  there  in  Obed's 
place,  so  as  to  have  done  this  thing  for  her.  He 
himself  had  once  saved  her  from  death,  and  that 
scene  could  never  depart  from  his  memory ;  but 
now  it  seemed  to  him  as  though  the  fate  from 
which  he  had  saved  her  was  as  nothing  when  com- 
pared to  the  terror  of  that  danger  from  which  she 
had  been  snatched  by  Obed. 

Yet,  during  Ol)ed's  narrative,  although  these 
feelings  were  within  his  heart,  he  said  little  or 
nothing.  He  listened  with  ap(>arent  calmness, 
ort'ering  no  remark,  thongli  at  that  time  the 
thoughts  of  his  heart  were  so  intense.  In  f  ict. 
it  was  through  the  very  intensity  of  his  feelings 
that  he  forced  himself  to  keep  silence.  For  if 
he  had  spoken  he  would  have  revealed  all.  If 
he  had  spoken  he  would  have  made  known,  even 
to  the  most  careless  or  the  most  preoccupied 
listener,  all  the  depth  of  that  love  which  filled 
his  whole  being.  Her  very  name  to  him  was 
something  which  he  could  not  mention  without 
visible  emotion.  And  she,  in  fearful  peril,  in 
terrific  danger,  in  a  situation  so  horrible,  could 
not  be  spoken  of  by  one  to  whom  she  was  so  dejir 
and  so  precious. 

And  so  he  listened  in  silence,  with  only  a  casu- 
al interjection,  until  Obed  had  finished  his  story. 
Then  he  made  some  ajipropriate  remarks,  very 
coolly,  complimentary  to  the  heroism  of  his 
friend ;  which  remarks  were  at  once  (piictly 
scouted  by  Obed  as  altogether  inapj)ropriate. 

"Pooh!"  said  he;  "what  was  it,  r.f>er  all? 
These  Italians  are  rubbish,  at  the  best.  They  are 
about  equal  to  Mexicans.  You've  read  about 
our  Mexican  war,  of  course.  To  gain  a  victory 
over  such  rubbish  is  almost  a  disgrace." 

Ko  Obed  spoke  about  it,  though  whether  he 
felt  his  exploit  to  be  a  disgrace  or  not  may  very 
reasonably  be  doubted. 


206 


THK  CRYPTOGRAM. 


Yet,  in  spite  of  Lord  Clietwynde'H  interest  in 
the  nttuir  of  the  Pontine  Miirslien,  tiiere  v/m  nn- 
otiier  story  of  Ohed's  which  produced  a  deeper 
etf'ect  on  his  mind.  'I'liiw  wiis  \m  iiuconnt  of  hi8 
interview  with  lllack  Hill,  to  whirh  he  had  l)eon 
summoned  in  London.  The  Htory  of  Black  Bill 
which  Ohed  )<uve  was  one  which  was  full  of  awful 
horror.  It  Hhowed  the  unrelenting  and  pitileHH 
cruelty  of  those  who  had  made  themselves  her 
enemies  ;  their  profound  genius  for  plotting,  and 
their  far-reaching  cunning.  He  saw  that  these 
enemies  must  i)e  full  of  holdness  and  craft  fur  he- 
yond  what  is  ordinarily  met  witli.  Black  JJill's 
account  of  Gualtier's  behavior  on  the  boat  when 
the  men  tried  to  mutiny  impressed  him  deeply. 
The  man  that  could  commit  such  a  deed  as  he 
had  done,  and  then  turn  upon  a  desjjerate  crew 
as  he  did,  to  battie  them,  to  subdue  them,  and  to 
bring  them  into  submission  to  his  will,  seemed 
to  him  to  he  no  common  man.  ilis  flight  after- 
ward, and  the  easy  and  yet  complete  way  in  which 
he  had  eluded  all  his  pursuers,  confirmed  this  view 
of  his  genius.  Obed  himself,  who  had  labored 
so  long,  and  yet  so  unsuccessfully,  coincided  in 
this  opinion. 

The  chief  subject  of  interest  in  these  affairs  to 
both  of  these  men  was  Zillah ;  yet,  though  the 
conversation  revolved  around  her  as  a  centre,  no 
direct  allusion  was  for  some  time  made  to  her 
jjresent  situation.  Yet  all  the  while  Jiord  Chet- 
wynde  was  filled  with  a  feverish  curiosity  to 
know  where  she  was,  whether  she  was  still  with 
( )bed'8  family,  or  had  left  them ;  whether  she  was 
far  away  from  him,  or  here  in  Florence.  Suoh  an 
immensity  of  happiness  or  of  misery  seemed  to 
him  at  that  time  to  depend  on  this  thing  that 
he  did  not  dare  to  ask  the  (piestion.  He  waited 
to  see  whether  (Jbed  himself  might  not  put  an 
end  to  this  suspense.  But  Obed's  thoughts  were 
all  absorbed  by  the  knotty  question  which  had 
been  raised  by  the  appearance  of  Black  Bill  with 
his  story.  From  the  London  police  he  had  re- 
ceived no  fresh  intelligence  since  his  departure, 
though  every  day  he  expected  to  hear  something. 
From  the  Marseilles  ai'thorities  he  had  heard 
nothing  since  his  last  Anit  to  that  city,  and  a 
letter  which  he  had  recently  dispatched  to  the 
prefect  at  Naples  had  not  yet  been  answered. 
As  far  as  his  knowledge  just  yet  was  concerned, 
the  whole  thing  had  gone  into  a  more  impene- 
trable mystery  than  ever,  and  the  ])rincipals  in 
this  case,  after  committing  atrocious  crimes,  aft- 
er baffling  the  police  of  different  nations,  seemed 
to  have  vanished  into  the  profoundest  obscurity. 
But  on  this  occasion  he  reiterated  that  determ- 
ination wiiich  he  had  made  before  of  never  losing 
sight  of  this  purpose,  but  keeping  at  it,  if  need 
were,  for  yenrs.  He  would  write  to  the  police, 
he  said,  perpetually,  and  would  give  information 
to  the  authorities  of  every  country  in  Eiu'ope. 
( )n  his  return  to  America  he  would  ha^•e  an  ex- 
tensive and  comprehensive  search  instituted.  He 
would  engage  detectives  himself  in  addition  to 
any  which  the  police  might  send  forth.  Above 
all,  he  intended  to  make  free  use  of  the  news- 
papers. He  had,  he  said — and  in  this  he  was  a 
true  American — grent  faith  in  advertising.  He 
had  drawn  up  in  his  mind  already  the  fonnulas 
of  various  kinds  of  notices  which  he  intended  to 
have  inserted  in  the  principal  pnpers,  by  which  he 
hoped  to  get  on  the  track  of  the  criminals.  Once 
on  their  track,  he  felt  assured  of  success. 


The  unexpected  addition  of  Black  Bill  to  the 
number  of  actors  in  this  important  case  was  right- 
ly considered  by  Obed  as  of  great  moment.  Ho 
had  some  idea  of  seeking  him  out  on  bis  return 
to  London,  and  of  employing  him  in  this  search. 
Black  Bill  would  be  stimulated  to  such  a  search 
by  something  far  more  i)owerful  than  any  mere 
professional  instinct  or  any  ho))e  of  reward. 
The  vengeance  which  ho  cherished  woidd  make 
him  go  on  this  errand  with  an  ardor  which  no 
other  could  feel.  He  had  his  own  ])ersonal 
grievance  against  Guoltier.  He  had  shown  this 
by  his  long  and  persistent  watch,  and  by  the 
malignancy  of  his  tone  when  spsaking  of  his 
enemy.  Besides  this,  he  had  more  than  passion 
or  malignancy  to  recommend  him  ;  he  had  that 
qualification  for  the  purpose  which  gave  aim  and 
certainty  to  all  his  vengeful  desires.  He  laid 
shown  himself  to  have  the  instinct  of  a  blood- 
hound, and  the  stealthy  cunning  of  nn  Indian  in 
following  on  the  trail  of  his  foiJ.  True  he  hnd 
been  once  outwitted,  but  that  arose  from  the  fact 
that  he  was  forced  to  watcli,  and  was  not  ready 
to  strike.  The  next  time  he  would  be  ready  to 
deal  the  blow,  and  if  he  were  once  put  on  the 
trail,  and  caught  up  with  the  fugitive,  the  bloAV 
would  full  swiftly  and  relentlessly. 

Debate  about  such  things  as  these  took  up  two 
or  three  hours,  during  which  time  Lord  Chet- 
wynde  endured  his  suspense.  At  length  they 
rose  to  leave  the  gardens,  and  then,  as  they  were 
walking  along,  he  said,  in  as  indifferent  a  tone 
as  he  could  assume : 

"  Oh — by-ihe-way — Miss  Lorton  is  here  with 
your  family,  1  suppose  ?" 

"Yes,"  said  Obed  ;  "she  is  with  ns  still." 

At  this  simple  answer  Lord  Chetwynde's  heart 
gave  a  great  bound,  and  then  seemed  to  stop 
beating  for  some  seconds.     He  said  nothing. 

"Mie  is  here  now  in  Florence  with  us,"  con- 
tinued Obed.  "  She  is  quite  one  of  the  family. 
We  all  call  her  Ella  now ;  she  insisted  on  it.  I 
have  taken  a  villa  a  few  miles  away.  Ella 
prefers  the  country.  We  often  drive  into  the 
city.  It's  a  wonder  to  me  that  we  never  met 
before." 

"Yes;  it  is  odd." 

"She  came  in  with  us  this  morning  with  a 
watch,  which  she  left  at  Penafrio's  to  be  mended. 
It  will  be  done  this  evening.  She  could  not  wait 
for  it,  so  I  staid,  so  as  to  take  it  out  to  her  to- 
night. I  strolled  about  the  town,  and  finally 
wandered  here,  which  I  think  the  prettiest  place 
in  Florence.  I'd  been  walking  through  the  gar- 
dens for  an  hour  before  you  saw  me." 

"  How  has  she  been  of  late  ?" 

"  Very  well  indeed — better,  in  fact,  than  she 
has  ever  been  since  I  first  saw  her.  She  was  not 
very  well  at  Naples.  The  journey  here  did  her 
much  good,  and  the  affair  of  the  I'ontine  Marshes 
roused  her  up  instead  of  agitating  her.  She  be- 
haved like  a  trump — she  was  as  cool  as  a  clock ; 
but  it  was  a  coolness  that  arose  from  an  excite- 
ment which  wns  absolutely  red-hot.  Sir.  She 
seemed  strung  up  to  a  pitch  ten  notes  higher  than 
usual,  and  once  or  twice  as  I  caught  her  eyes 
they  seemed  to  me  to  have  a  deep  fire  in  them 
that  was  stunning!  1  never,  in  all  my  born 
days,  saw  the  eqnni  of  that  little  thin(^,"  ex- 
claimed Obed,  tenderly. 

"  It's  having  an  occupation,"  he  continued, 
"as  I  believe,  that's  done  her  this  good,     fche 


THE  CUVrTOGKAM. 


207 


she 
not 
her 
I'shes 
be- 
lock; 
Icite- 
She 
I  than 
eyes 
kli'era 
I  horn 
ex- 

ined, 

bhe 


wiu>  afraid  she  would  ho  a  de|iendent,  nnd  the 
fear  arose  out  of  a  noble  feeliiiK-  Now  hHo  finds 
her  (Kiaition  an  honorable  one.  It  gives  her  a 
fine  feeling  of  |>rid&  The  poor  little  thing  seems 
to  have  been  brought  up  to  do  nothing  at  all ; 
but  now  the  discovery  that  she  can  do  something 
actually  intoxicates  her.  And  the  beunty  of  it 
is,  she  does  it  well.  Yes,  Sir.  My  children  hove 
been  pushed  along  at  a  ti'e-mendous  pace,  and 
they  love  Ella  better  than  me  or  sister  ten  times. 
But  you'll  see  for  yourself,  for  you've  got  to  come 
right  straight  out  with  me,  ray  boy.  You,  Wind- 
ham, are  the  one  that  Rlla  would  rather  see  than 
any  other.  You're  the  man  that  saved  her  from 
death,  and  gave  her  to  me." 

At  this  Lord  Chetwynde's  stout  heart,  that  had 
never  quailed  in  the  face  of  death,  throbbed  fever- 
ishly in  his  intense  joy,  and  his  whole  frame 
thrilled  at  the  thought  that  arose  in  his  mind. 
Going  to  her  was  easy  enough,  through  Obed's 
warm  friendship.  And  he  was  going  to  her! 
This  was  the  only  thought  of  which  he  was  con- 
scious. 

The  carriage  was  waiting  in  front  of  the  watch- 
maker's shop,  and  the  watch  was  rciuiy  ;  so  they 
drove  out  without  delay.  It  seemed  to  Lord 
(^hetwynde  like  a  drenm.  He  was  lost  in  an- 
ticipations of  the  coming  meeting — that  meeting 
which  he  had  never  dared  to  hope  for,  but  which 
was  now  before  him. 

Obed  Chute,  on  coming  to  Fkrence,  had  rent- 
ed a  villa  on  the  slopes  of  the  hills  overlooking 
Val  d'Arno.  It  was  about  twelve  or  fifteen 
miles  away.  The  rond  ran  through  the  plain, 
and  then  ascended  the  hills  gently,  in  a  winding 
direction,  till  it  reached  the  place.  The  villa  was 
surrounded  by  beautiful  grounds,  wherein  trim 
gardens  were  seen,  and  fair  winding  walks,  in- 
terspersed with  fountains  and  statuary  and  pavil- 
ions. Besides  these  there  were  extensive  forests 
of  thick-growing  trees,  whose  dense  branches,  in- 
teilacing  overhead,  threw  down  heavy  shadows. 
Through  these  dim  woods  many  patliwnys  jiene- 
trated,  leading  to  secpiestered  nooks  and  roman- 
tic grottoes.  Here  there  wandered  several  little 
brooklets,  and  in  the  midst  of  the  forest  there 
was  a  lake,  or  rather  a  pond,  from  the  middle 
of  which  rose  u  marble  Triton,  which  perpetually 
spouted  forth  water  from  his  shell.  The  villa  it- 
self was  of  generous  dimensions,  in  that  style 
which  is  so  familiar  to  us  in  this  country,  with 
broad  piazzas  and  wide  porticoes,  and  no  ^  lack 
of  statuary.  Here  Obed  Chute  had  made  him- 
self quite  at  home,  and  confided  to  Lord  Chet- 
wynde  the  fact  that  he  would  prefer  this  to  his 
house  on  the  Hudson  Itiver  if  he  could  only  see 
the  Stars  and  Stripes  floating  from  the  Campa- 
nile at  Florence.  As  this  was  not  likely  to  hap- 
])en,  he  was  forced  to  look  upon  himself  as  mere- 
ly a  pilgrim  and  a  sojoiu'ner.  • 

Lord  Chetwynde  entered  the  villa.  Obed  re- 
mained behind  for  a  few  moments  to  give  some 
directions  to  the  servants.  A  lofty  hall  ran 
tiirough  the  villa,  with  statues  on  each  side,  and 
a  fountain  at  the  farthest  end.  On  either  side 
there  were  doors  opening  into  spacious  apart- 
ments. Lord  Chetwynde  turned  to  the  right, 
and  entered  a  magnificent  room,  which  extend- 
ed the  whole  length  of  the  house.  He  looked 
around,  and  his  attention  was  at  once  arrested 
l>y  a  figure  at  the  farthest  end.  It  was  a  lady, 
whose  youthful  face  and  slender  figure  made  his 


heart  beat  fast  and  furiously;  for,  though  ho 
coidd  not  distinguish  bur  features,  which  were 
jmrtly  turned  away,  yet  the  shape  was  familiar, 
and  was  associated  with  the  sweetest  memories 
of  his  life.  The  lady  was  sitting  in  a  liaif-re- 
clining  position  on  an  Egyptian  couch,  her  head 
was  thrown  back,  a  book  hung  listlessly  in  one 
hand,  and  she  seemed  lost  in  thought.  .So  deep 
was  her  abstraction  (hat  the  noise  of  I^ird  ( .'het- 
wynde's  steps  on  the  marble  floor  did  not  arouse 
her.  When  he  saw  her  he  paused  involuntarily, 
and  stood  for  a  few  moments  in  silence. 

Yes,  it  was  «/ic  /  One  look  told  him  this.  It 
was  the  one  who  for  so  long  a  time  had  l)een  in 
all  his  thoughts,  who  in  his  illness  had  been  ever 
present  to  his  delirious  dreams.  It  was  the  one 
to  whom  his  heart  had  never  ceased  to  turn 
since  that  first  day  when  that  head  had  lain  for 
a  moment  on  his  breast,  and  that  rich,  Inxuriant 
hair  had  flowed  in  a  seo  of  glory  over  his  arms, 
burnished  by  the  red  rays  of  the  rising  sun.  Ho 
walked  softly  forward  and  drew  near.  Then  the 
noise  of  his  footsteps  roused  her.     She  turned. 

There  came  over  her  face  the  sudden  light  of 
joyous  and  rapturous  wonder.  In  that  sudden 
rapture  she  seemed  to  lose  breath  and  sense. 
She  started  forward  to  her  feet,  and  the  book 
fell  from  her  hand.  For  an  instant  she  pressed 
her  hand  to  her  heart,  and  then,  with  both  hands 
outstretched,  and  with  her  beautiful  face  all  aglow 
with  joy  and  delight  that  she  could  not  conceal, 
she  8tep(>cd  forward.  But  suddenly,  as  though 
some  other  thought  occurred,  she  sto])pcd,  and  a 
crimson  glow  came  over  her  pale  face.  She  cast 
down  her  eyes  and  stood  waiting. 

Lord  Chetwynde  caught  her  outstretched  hand, 
which  still  was  timidly  held  toward  him,  in  both 
of  his,  and  said  not  one  word.  For  a  time  nei- 
ther of  them  spoke,  but  he  held  her  hand,  and 
she  did  not  w  ithdraw  it. 

"  Oh !"  he  cried,  suddenly,  as  though  the  words 
were  torn  from  him,  "how  I  have  longed  for 
this  moment !" 

She  looked  at  hiih  hastily  and  confusedly,  and 
then  withdrew  her  hand,  while  another  flushswept 
over  her  face. 

"Mr.  Windham,"  she  faltered,  in  low  tones, 
"what  an  unexpected  pleasure!  I — 1  thought 
you  were  in  England." 

"  And  so  I  was,"  said  Lord  Chetwynde,  as  he 
devoured  her  with  the  ardent  gaze  of  his  eyes ; 
"  but  my  business  was  finished,  and  I  left — " 

"  How  did  you  find  us  out?"  she  asked,  smil- 
ingly, as,  once  more  resuming  her  self-possession, 
she  sat  down  again  upon  the  Egyptian  sofa  and 
picked  up  her  book.  "  Have  you  been  in  corre- 
spondence with  Mr.  Chute  i'" 

"No,"  laughed  Lord  Chetwynde.  "It  was 
fate  that  threw  him  into  my  way  at  ^he  Boboli 
Gardens  this  morning.  I  have  been  htre  for — 
well,  for  a  small  eternity — and  was  thi:iking  of 
going  away  when  he  came  up,  and  now  I  am 
reconciled  to  all  my  past." 

A  silence  followed,  and  each  seemed  to  take  a 
haf  ty  glance  at  the  other.  On  Zillah's  face  there 
were  the  traces  of  sorrow ;  its  lines  had  grown 
finer,  and  its  air  more  delicate  and  spiritual.  Lord 
Chetwynde's  face,  on  the  other  hand,  showed  still 
the  marks  of  that  disease  which  had  brought  him 
to  death's  door,  and  no  longer  had  that  glow  of 
manly  health  which  had  been  its  characteristic 
at  Marseilles. 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


'SHIi:   SEEMBD   LOST   IN   THOUGHT, 


I 


"Yon  have  been  ill,"  said  Zillah,  suddenly, 
and  with  some  alarm  in  her  voice. 

"Yes,"  said  Lord  Chetwynde,  sadly  ;  "  I  have 
been  as  near  death  as  it  is  possible  for  one  to  be 
and  live." 

"Tn  England?" 

"No;  in  Switzerland." 

"Switzerland?" 

"Yes." 

"  I  thought  that  perhaps  some  private  troubles 
in  England  had  caused  it, "  suid  Zillah,  with  tones 
of  deep  sympathy,  for  she  recollected  his  last 
words  to  her,  which  expressed  such  fearful  an- 
ticipations of  the  future. 

"  No ;  I  bore  all  that.  It  was  an  unexpected 
circumstance,"  he  said,  in  a  cautious  tone,  "  that 
caused  my  illness.  But  the  Italian  air  has  been 
beneficial.  But  you — how  have  you  been?  I 
fear  that  you  yourself  have  been  ill." 

"  I  have  had  some  troubles,"  Zillah  replied. 

Lord  Chetwynde  forbore  to  question  her  about 
those  troubles.  He  went  on  to  speak  about  the 
air  of  Val  d'Anio  being  the  best  thing  in  the 
World  for  all  illness,  and  congratulated  her  on 
having  so  beautiful  a  spot  in  which  to  live.  Zil- 
lah grew  enthusiastic  in  her  praises  of  Florence 
and  all  the  surrounding  scenery;  and  as  each 


learned  how  long  the  other  had  been  here  they 
wondered  why  tliey  had  not  met. 

"But  I,"  said  Zillah,  "have  not  gone  often 
to  the  city  since  the  first  week.  It  is  so  beauti- 
ful here. " 

"And  I,"  said  Lord  Chetwynde,  "have  rid- 
den all  about  the  environs,  but  have  never  been 
near  here  before.  And  even  if  I  had,  I  should 
have  gone  by  it  without  knowing  or  suspecting 
that  you  were  here." 

Obed  Chute  had  much  to  see  about,  and  these 
two  remained  long  together.  They  talked  over 
many  things.  Sometimes  there  were  long  pauses, 
which  yet  were  free  from  embarrassment.  The 
flush  on  Zillah's  cheek,  and  the  kindling  light 
of  her  eye,  showed  a  pleasure  which  she  conhl 
not  conceal.  Happiness  was  so  strange  to  her 
that  she  welcomed  eagerly  this  present  hour, 
which  was  so  bright  to  her  poor  sorrow-laden 
heart.  I<ord  Chetwynde  forgot  his  troubles, 
he  banished  the  future,  and,  as  before,  he  seized 
the  present,  and  enjoyed  it  to  the  full. 

Obed  returned  at  last  and  joined  them.  The 
time  fled  by  rapidly.  Lord  Chetwynde  made  a 
move  to  return  at  about  eleven  o'clock,  but  Obed 
would  not  allow  him.  He  made  him  stay  that 
night  at  the  villa. 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


209 


CHAPTER  LXIII. 

A  CHANOB. 


these 
over 

rtuses, 
Tlie 
light 
could 

to  her 
hour, 
•laden 

)i\ble§, 
seized 

The 
(inde  a 
tObed 
ly  that 


ALTiionoii  Lord  (Mictwynde  was  atwayn  out 
by  day,  yet  ho  liad  always  returned  to  his  rooms 
at  niglit,  and  theruforo  it  was  u  matter  of  siir- 
prise  to  Hilda,  on  tliis  eventful  niglit,  that  twelve 
o'clock  came  without  any  signs  of  his  rottirn. 
In  her  wild  and  ungovernable  passion  her  whole 
life  had  now  grown  to  ho  one  long  internal  strug- 
gle, in  which  it  was  with  diHiculty  that  she  ko|)t 
down  the  stormy  feelings  within  her.  This 
night  she  had  grown  more  nervous  than  usual. 
It  was  as  though  she  had  attained  to  the  culmin- 
ation of  the  lung  excitements  through  which  she 
had  passed,  llis  absence  lllled  her  with  a  thou- 
sand fears.  The  longing  of  her  heart  grew  in- 
tolerable as  the  hours  passed  by  without  any 
signs  of  his  return.  Weary  of  calling  to  her 
servant  to  ask  if  he  had  come  back,  she  at  lust 
dismissed  the  servant  to  bed,  and  sat  herself  at 
the  door  of  her  room,  listening  for  the  sound  of 
f(H>t8teps.  In  that  watchful  attitude  she  sat, 
dumb  and  motionless ;  but  the  hours  passed  by 
her  as  she  sat  there,  and  still  he  came  not. 

Through  those  hours  her  mind  was  filled  with 
a  thousand  fears  and  fancies.  Nomotimes  she 
tiiought  that  he  had  been  assassinated.  At 
other  times  she  fancied  that  (jrualtier  might 
have  broken  his  promise,  and  come  back  from 
London,  full  of  vengeance,  to  track  the  man 
whom  ho  hated.  These  ideas,  however,  at 
length  left  her,  and  another  took  possession  of 
her,  which  was  fur  more  natural  and  probable, 
and  which  finally  became  a  deep  and  immov- 
able conviction.  iShe  thought  that  Lord  C'het- 
wynde  had  at  last  yielded  to  his  aversion;  and 
unwilling,  from  motives  of  gratitude,  to  have 
any  formal  farewell,  he  had  concluded  to  leave 
her  abruptly. 

"  Yes,"  she  said  to  herself,  as  this  thought  first 
came  to  her,  "that  is  it.  lie  wearies  of  my  per- 
petual presence.  He  does  not  wish  to  subject 
himself  to  my  mean  entreaties,  lie  has  cut  the 
connection  abruptly,  and  is  this  night  on  his 
way  to  Leghorn  to  take  the  steamer.  He  has 
gone  to  Luiia,  and  left  me  forever.  To-morrow, 
no  doubt,  I  shall  get  a  letter  acquainting  me 
with  the  irrevocable  step,  and  bidding  me  an 
eternal  farewell." 

The  more  she  thought  f  this  the  more  in- 
tense her  conviction  became,  until  at  last,  from 
the  force  of  her  own  fancies,  she  became  as  cer- 
tain of  this  as  though  some  one  had  actually 
told  her  of  his  departure.  Then  there  came 
over  her  a  mighty  sense  of  desolation.  What 
should  she  do  now?  Life  seemed  in  that  in- 
stant to  have  lost  all  its  sweetness  and  its  mean- 
ing. Again  there  came  to  her  that  thought 
which  many  times  during  the  last  few  weeks 
had  occurred,  and  now  had  grown  familiar — 
the  awful  thought  of  suicide.  The  life  she  lived 
had  already  grown  almost  intolerable  from  its 
unfulfilled  wishes,  and  its  longings  against  hppe ; 
but  now  the  last  hope  had  departed,  and  life 
itself  was  nothing  but  a  burden.  Should  she 
not  lay  it  down  ? 

So  the  night  passed,  and  the  morning  cair.':, 
but  through  all  that  night  sleep  came  not.  And 
the  dawn  came,  and  the  hours  of  the  day  passed 
liy,  but  she  sat  motionless.  The  servants  came, 
but  were  sent  away ;  and  this  woman  of  feeling 
O 


and  of  passion,  who  onco  had  risen  superior  to 
all  feeling,  now  lay  a  prey  to  an  agony  oi  :'oul 
that  threatened  reason  and  life  itself. 

Hut  suddenly  all  this  was  brought  to  an  end. 
At  about  mid-day  i^ord  (<hetwynde  returned. 
Hilda  heard  his  footstep  and  his  voice.  A  great 
joy  darted  through  her,  and  her  first  impulse 
was  to  fiing  herself  upon  him,  aiul  weep  tears  of 
happiness  upon  his  breast.  Hut  that  was  a  thing 
which  was  denied  her — a  privilege  which  might 
never  bo  hers.  After  the  first  wild  impulse  and 
the  first  rush  of  joy  she  restrained  herself,  and, 
locking  the  door  of  her  room,  she  sat  listening 
with  (juick  and  heavy  breathing.  She  heard  him 
speak  a  few  careless  words  to  the  servant.  She 
heard  him  go  to  his  room,  whore  he  staid  for 
about  an  hour.  She  watched  ant  vaited,  but 
restrained  every  impulse  to  go  out.  "  I  have 
tormented  him  too  much,"  she  said  to  herself. 
"I  have  i'oiced  myself  upon  him;  1  have  made 
myself  common.  A  greater  delicacy  and  a  more 
retiring  habit  will  be  more  agreeable  to  him. 
Let  me  not  destroy  my  present  happiness.  It  is 
joy  enough  that  my  fears  are  dispersed,  iind  that 
he  has  not  yfet  left  mo."  So  she  restrained  her- 
self— though  that  self-restraint  was  the  mightest 
task  which  she  had  ever  undertaken — and  sat 
passively  listening,  when  eveiy  feeling  pnunpted 
iier  to  rush  forth  eagerly  to  greet  him. 

He  went  away  tliat  day,  and  came  back  by 
midnight.  Hilda  did  not  trouble  him,  and  they 
met  on  the  following  moniing. 

Now,  at  the  first  glance  which  she  stole  at  him, 
she  noted  in  him  a  wonderful  change.  His  face 
had  lost  its  gloom ;  there  was  an  expression  of 
peace  and  blissful  tranquillity  which  she  had 
never  observed  before,  and  which  she  hnd  never 
thought  possible  to  one  who  had  appeared  to  her 
as  he  always  had.  She  sat  wondering  as  the/ 
waited  for  breakfast  to  be  served — a  meal  which 
they  generally  took  together — and  baffled  her.self 
in  vain  conjectures.  A  great  change  had  cer- 
tainly come  over  him.  He  greeted  her  with  a 
bright  and  genial  smile.  He  had  shaken  her 
hand  with  the  warm  pressure  of  a  good-hearted 
friend.  He  was  sprightly  even  with  the  servants. 
He  noticed  the  exquisite  beauty  of  the  day.  He 
had  something  to  say  about  many  little  trifles. 
Even  in  his  best  moods,  during  the  journey,  he 
had  never  been  like  this.  Then  he  had  never 
been  otherwise  than  reserved  and  self-contained ; 
his  face  had  never  altogether  lost  its  cloud  of 
care.  Now  there  was  not  a  vestige  of  care  to  be 
seen ;  he  was  joyous ;  he  was  even  hilarious ; 
and  seemed  at  peace  with  himself  and  all  the 
world. 

What  had  happened  ? 

This  was  the  question  which  Hilda  incessantly 
asked  herself.  It  needed  something  unusual  to 
change  so  completely  this  strong  nature,  and 
transform  the  sadness  which  had  filled  it  into 
peace  and  joy.  What  had  haitpened  ?  What 
thing,  of  what  kind,  would  be  necessarv  to  effect 
such  a  change  ?  Could  it  be  gratified  \  mnca  ? 
No  ;  the  feeling  was  too  light  for  that.  Was  it 
the  news  of  some  sudden  fortune  ?  S'ie  did  not 
believe  that  if  Lord  Chetwynde  heard  that  he 
had  inherited  millions  it  would  give  such  joy  as 
this,  which  would  make  itself  manifest  in  all  his 
looks  and  words  and  acts  and  tones.  What 
would  be  needed  to  produce  such  a  change  in 
herself?    Would  vengeance,  or  riches,  or  honor 


(■»-'. I  ■'luflf" '■  .  I" .)».". 


■■urvvM.'.i'V^*'?^  .' 


210 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


be  sufficient  ?  No.  One  thing  alone  could  do 
this.  Were  she,  by  any  possibility,  ever  to  gain 
Lord  C-hetwynde  to  herself,  then  she  felt  that  lihe 
would  know  the  same  sweet  peace  and  calm  joy 
as  that  which  she  now  read  in  his  face.  In  tliat 
event  she  thought  that  she  could  look  upon  her 
worst  enemy  with  a  smile.  But  in  him  what 
could  it  mean  ?  Could  it  be  possible  that  he  had 
any  one  whose  smile  would  bring  him  such  pence 
as  this  ?  (Jnee  before  she  suspected  that  he  loved 
another.  Could  it  be  within  the  bounds  of  pos- 
sibility that  the  one  whom  he  loved  lived  in  Flor- 
ence ? 

This  thought  filled  her  with  dismay.  And 
yet,  why  not?  Hud  he  not  set  out  from  En- 
gland for  Italy?  Had  he  not  dragged  himself 
out  of  his  sick-room,  almost  before  he  could 
walk,  to  pursue  his  journey  ?  Had  he  not  broken 
off  almost  all  intercourse  with  herself  after  the 
first  week  of  their  arrival  ?  Had  he  not  been 
occupied  with  some  engrossing  business  all  the 
time  since  then  ?  What  business  could  have  at 
once  so  occupied  him  and  so  changed  him,  if  it 
were  not  something  of  this  kind  ?  There  was 
one  thing  which  could  at  once  account  for  his 
coolness  to  her  and  his  inaccessibility  to  her  ad- 
vances, for  his  journey  to  Florence,  for  his  occu- 
pation all  the  time,  and  now  for  this  strange 
mood  of  happiness  which  had  come  so  suddenly 
yet  so  gently  over  him.  And  that  one  thing, 
which  alone,  to  her  m'nd,  could  at  once  account 
for  all  these  things,  was  Love. 

The  time  passed,  and  Lord  Chetwynde's  new 
mood  seemed  lasting.  Never  had  he  been  so 
considerate,  so  gentle,  and  so  kind  to  Hilda. 
At  any  other  time,  or  under  any  other  circum- 
stances, this  change  would  have  stimulated  her 
mind  to  the  wildest  hopes ;  but  now  it  prompted 
fears  which  filled  her  with  des])air.  So,  as  the 
days  passed,  the  struggle  raged  within  her  breast. 

"Meanwhile  Lord  C^hetwynde  was  a  constant 
visitor  at  the  villa  of  Obed  Chute,  and  a  welcome 
guest  to  all.  As  the  days  passed  the  constant 
association  which  he  hud  with  Zillah  made  each 
Iwtter  known  to  the  other  than  ever  before.  The 
tenderness  that  existed  between  them  was  re- 
pressed in  the  presence  of  the  others ;  but  on  the 
frequent  occasions  when  they  were  left  alone  to- 1 
getlier  it  found  expression  by  acts  if  not  by  j 
words,  by  looks  if  not  by  acta.  Lord  Chetwynde  ] 
could  not  forget  that  first  look  of  all-absoibing 
and  overwhelming  joy  with  which  Zillah  had 
J,  jeted  him  on  his  sudden  appearance.  A  mas- 
ter, to  a  certain  extent,  over  himself,  he  coerced 
himself  so  far  as  not  to  alarm  Zillah  by  any  ten- 
der words  or  by  any  acts  which  told  too  much  ; 
yet  in  his  face  and  in  his  eyes  she  could  read,  if 
she  chose,  all  his  devotion.  As  for  Zillah,  the 
change  which  she  had  felt  from  the  dull  monot- 
ony of  her  past  to  the  vivid  joy  of  the  present 
was  so  great  and  so  powerful  that  its  effects  were 
too  manifest  to  be  concealed.  She  could  not 
tionceal  the  glow  of  health  that  sprang  to  her 
cheek,  the  light  that  kindled  in  her  eye,  the  res- 
onant tone  that  was  added  to  her  voice,  and  the 
spring  that  came  to  her  step.  Nor  could  she,  in 
her  girlish  innocence,  conceal  altogether  how 
completely  she  now  rested  all  her  hopes  and  all 
her  ha{)f>ine8s  upon  Lord  Chetwynde ;  the  flush 
of  joy  that  arose  at  his  arrival,  the  sadness  that 
overspread  her  at  his  departure.  Hut  Obed 
Chute  and  his  sister  were  not  observant;  and 


these  things,  which  would  have  been  so  manifest 
to  others,  were  never  noticed  by  them.  It  seem- 
ed to  both  of  them  as  though  Zillah  merely 
shared  the  pleasure  which  they  felt  in  the  society 
of  this  Windham,  whom  Obed  loved  and  admired, 
and  they  thought  that  Zillah 's  feelings  were  mere- 
ly of  the  same  character  as  their  own. 

Neither  Lord  Chetwynde  nor  Zillah  cared  to 
disclose  the  true  state  of  t\}e  case.  Lord  Chet- 
wynde wished  to  see  her  every  day,  but  did  not 
wish  them  to  know  that  he  came  every  day. 
That  might  seem  strange  to  them.  In  point  of 
fact,  they  would  have  thought  nothing  of  it,  but 
would  have  welcomed  him  as  warmly  as  ever; 
but  Lord  Chetwynde  could  not  feel  sure  of  this. 
And  if  he  visited  her  every  day,  he  did  not  wish 
to  let  the  world  know  it.  How  it  happened  can 
not  bd  told ;  by  what  mysterious  process  it  oc- 
curred can  scarcely  be  related;  such  a  process 
is  too  indefinable  for  description ;  but  certain  it 
is  that  a  mysterious  understanding  sprang  up  be- 
tween him  and  Zillah,  so  that  on  every  alternate 
day  when  he  rode  toward  the  villa  he  would 
leave  his  horse  at  a  house  about  a  quarter  of  a 
mile  away,  and  walk  to  the  nearest  part  of  the 
park,  where  there  was  a  small  gate  among  the 
trees.  Here  he  usually  entered,  and  soon  reach- 
ed a  small  kiosk  near  that  pond  among  the  woods 
which  has  already  been  spoken  of.  The  house- 
hold was  so  small  and  so  quiet,  and  the  woodw 
were  so  unfrequented  and  so  shadowy,  that  there 
was  scarcely  any  possibility  of  interruption. 
Even  if  they  had  been  discovered  there  by  Coed 
himself.  Lord  Chetwynde's  presence  of  mind 
could  have  readily  furnished  a  satisfactory  story 
to  account  for  it.  He  had  already  arranged  that 
in  his  mind.  Ho  would  have  "  happened  to  meet" 
Zillah  on  the  road  near  the  gate,  and  come  in 
here  with  her.  By  this  it  will  be  seen,  on  the 
strength  of  this  mysterious  understanding,  that 
Zillah  was  not  averse  to  this  clandestine  meet- 
ing. In  fact,  she  always  was  there.  Many  times 
they  met  there  in  the  weeks  which  Lord  Chet- 
wynde passed  in  Florence,  and  never  once  did 
she  fail  to  he  there  first  to  await  him. 

Perhaps  it  .,as  because  each  had  a  secret  be- 
lief that  this  was  all  temporary — a  hajjpiness,  a 
bliss,  in  fact,  in  this  part  of  their  mortal  lives, 
but  a  bliss  too  great  to  last.  Perha])s  it  was 
this  that  gave  Zillah  the  courage  and  spirit  to  be 
at  the  trysting-place  to  receive  this  man  who 
adored  her,  and  never  to  fail  to  be  there  first — 
to  think  that  not  to  be  there  first  would  be  al- 
most a  sin — and  so  to  receive  his  deep  and  fer- 
vent expressions  of  gratitude  for  her  kindness, 
which  were  reiterated  at  every  meeting.  At 
any  rate,  Zillah  was  always  there  on  the  days 
when  Lord  Chetwynde  wished  her  to  be  there ; 
and  on  the  occasions  when  he  visited  the  villa 
she  was  not  there,  but  was  seated  in  the  drawing- 
room  to  receive  him.  Obed  Chute  thought  that 
Lord  Chetwynde  came  three  times  a  week. 
Zillah  knew  that  he  came  seven  times  a  week. 

Fpr  some  time  this  state  of  things  had  con- 
tinued. Windham  was  the  cho.sen  friend  of 
Obed,  and  the  favored  guest  at  Obed's  villa. 
Zillah  knew  that  this  cou'd  not  last,  and  used  to 
try  to  check  her  happiness,  and  rea.son  it  down. 
But  as  the  hour  of  the  tryst  approached  all  at- 
tempts of  this  kind  were  forgotten,  and  she  wa» 
♦here  watching  and  waiting. 

To  her,  one  day  thus  waiting,  Lord  Clietwyiwle 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


211 


came  with  a  sad  smile  on  his  face,  and  something 
in  hi»  eyes  which  threw  a  chill  over  Zilluh's  heart. 
They  talked  a  little  while,  but  Lord  Chetwynde 
was  melancholy  and  preoccupied. 

"You  do  not  look  well  to-day,"  said  Zillah, 
wonderingly,  and  in  tones  which  were  full  of 
sympathy.     "  I  hope  nothing  has  happened?" 

Lord  Chetwynde  looked  earnestly  at  her  and 
sighed  heavily. 

"Miss  Lorton,"  said  he,  sadly,  "something 
has  happened  winch  has  thrown  the  deepest 
gliom  over  me.  Shall  I  tell  you?  Wi'.l  you 
sympathize  with  my  gloom  ?  I  will  tell  you.  I 
have  this  day  received  a  letter  giving  me  my  ap- 
pointment to  a  post  in  India,  for  which  I  have 
been  waiting  for  a  long  time." 

"India!" 

Zillah  gasped  this  out  with  whit  'ps,  while 
her  face  assumed  the  ashen  hue  of  despair. 

"India!"  she  repeated,  as  her  great  eyes  were 
fixed  in  agony  upon  him ;  and  then  she  stopped, 
jiressing  her  hand  to  her  heart. 

Tiie  anguish  of  that  look  was  so  intense  that 
Lord  Chetwynde  was  shaken  to  the  soul.  He 
caught  her  hand  in  his,  scarce  knowing  what  he 
did. 

"  Oh,  Miss  Lorton,"  he  cried,  "  do  not  look  so 
at  me.  I  am  in  despair ;  I  am  heart-broken ; 
I  dare  not  look  at  the  future ;  but  the  future  is 
not  immediate ;  I  can  yet  wait  a  few  weeks ;  and 
you  will  still  come  here,  will  you  not — to  see 
me?" 

Zillah  caught  her  hand  away,  and  her  eyes 
fell.  Tears  dropped  from  beneath  her  heavy 
lashes.     But  she  said  not  a  word. 

"  At  any  rate,  tell  me  this,"  cried  Lord  Chet- 
wynde, "when  I  am  gone,  Miss  Lorton,  you 
will  not  forget  me?    Tell  me  this." 

Zillah  looked  at  him  with  her  large,  spiritual 
eyes,  whose  fire  seemed  now  to  burn  Into  his 
soul,  and  her  lips  moved  : 

"Never!" 

That  was  the  only  word  that  she  said. 


CHAPTER  LXIV. 

THE    MASQUERADE. 

Obed  CnrTE  came  home  one  day  full  of  news, 
and  particularly  diluted  upon  the  grandeur  of  a 
masquerade  ball  which  was  to  take  place  at  the 
Villa  Kinalci.  He  wished  to  go,  and  to  take 
Zillah.  The  idea  filled  all  his  mind,  and  his  ex- 
citement was  si'eedily  communicated  to  Zillah, 
.-ind  to  Lord  Chetwynde,  who  happened  to  be 
there  at  the  time.  Obed  had  learned  that  it  was 
to  be  conducted  with  the  highest  degree  of  mag- 
nificence. He  had  talked  about  it  with  some 
Ameiitans  with  whom  he  had  met  in  the  cafe', 
and,  as  he  had  never  seen  one,  he  was  eager  to 
go.  Lord  Chetwynde  expressed  the  same  de- 
sire, and  Zillah  at  once  showed  a  girlish  enthu- 
siasm that  was  most  gratifying  to  Obed.  It  was 
soon  decided  that  they  all  should  go.  A  long 
conversation  followed  about  the  dresses,  and 
each  one  selected  what  commended  itself  as  the 
most  agreeable  or  becoming.  Obed  intended  to 
dress  as  a  Western  trapper,  Zillah  as  an  Athe- 
nian maid  of  the  classic  days,  while  I^rd  Chet- 
wynde decided  upon  the  costume  of  the  Cavaliers. 
A  merry  evening  was  spent  in  settling  upon  these 


details,  for  the  costume  of  each  one  was  subject- 
ed to  the  criticism  of  the  others,  and  much  laugh- 
ter arose  over  the  various-  suggestions  that  were 
made  from  time  to  time  about  the  best  costume. 

For  some  days  Lord  Chetwynde  busied  himself 
about  his  costume.  He  had  to  hr.ve  it  made  es- 
pecially for  the  occasion,  and  tailors  had  to  be 
seen,  and  measurements  had  to  be  taken.  Of 
course  this  did  not  interfere  in  the  smallest  de- 
gree with  his  constant  attendance  upon  Zillah, 
for  every  day  he  was  punctual  at  the  trysting- 
place  or  in  the  villa. 

Meanwhile  Hilda's  intolerable  anxiety  had 
taken  another  and  a  very  natural  turn.  She  be- 
gan to  feel  intensely  curious  about  the  object  of 
Lord  Chctvvynde's  daily  occupations.  Having 
once  come  to  the  conclusion  that  there  was  a  wo- 
man in  the  case,  every  hour  only  strengthened 
this  conviction,  until  at  length  \t  was  as  firmly 
fixed  in  her  mind  as  the  belief  in  her  own  exist- 
ence. The  pangs  of  jealousy  which  she  suttered 
from  this  cause  were  as  extreme  as  those  which 
she  had  suftered  before  from  fear,  or  anxiety,  or 
suspense,  both  when  hurrying  on  to  save  Lord 
Chetwynde,  and  when  watching  at  his  bedside. 
In  her  wild,  ungovernable  passion  and  her  uncon- 
trollable love  she  felt  the  same  vehement  jealousy 
which  a  betrothed  mistress  might  feel,  and  the  same 
unreasoning  indignation  which  a  true  and  law- 
fid  wife  might  have  when  suspecting  a  husband's 
perfidy.  Such  feelings  filled  her  with  an  insatia- 
ble desire  to  learn  what  might  be  his  secret,  and 
to  find  out  at  all  costs  who  this  one  might  be  of 
whose  existence  she  now  felt  confident.  Behind 
this  desire  there  lay  an  implacable  resolve  to  take 
vengeance  in  some  way  upon  her,  and  the  discov- 
ery of  her  in  Hilda's  mind  was  only  synonymous 
with  the  deadly  vengeance  which  she  would  wreak 
upon  this  destroyer  of  her  peace. 

It  was  difficult,  however,  to  accomplish  such  a 
desire.  Little  or  nothing  could  be  found  out 
from  the  servants,  nor  was  there  any  one  whom 
she  could  employ  to  observe  her  "  husband's"  ac- 
tions. Now  she  began  to  feel  the  need  of  that 
deep  devotion  and  matchless  fidelity  which  she 
had  once  received  from  Gualtier.  But  he  was 
far  away.  Could  she  not  send  for  him  ?  She 
thought  of  this  often,  but  still  delayed  to  do  so. 
She  felt  sure  that  the  moment  she  gave  the  com- 
mand he  would  leave  every  thing  and  come  to 
do  her  bidding.  But  slie  hesitated.  Even  in 
her  unscrupulous  mind  there  was  a  perception 
of  the  fitness  of  things,  and  she  was  slow  to 
call  to  her  c.tiBistance  tlie  aid  of  the  man  who  so 
deeply  loved  her,  when  her  jmrpose  was  to  re- 
move or  to  punish  her  rival  in  the  affections  of 
another  man,  or  rather  an  obstacle  in  the  way  of 
securing  his  affections.  Deprived  thus  of  all  aid, 
it  was  difficult  for  her  to  find  out  any  thing. 

At  length  Lord  Chetwynde  became  interested 
in  the  affair  of  the  masquerade.  The  state  of 
mind  into  which  he  had  fallen  ever  since  the  dis- 
covery f  f  Zillah  had  deprived  him  of  that  con- 
stant reticence  which  used  to  be  his  characteris- 
tic. He  was  now  pleasant  and  genial  and  talka- 
tive. This  change  had  inspired  alarm  in  Hilda 
rather  than  joy,  and  she  had  considered  this  the 
chief  reason  for  believing  that  love  was  the  ani- 
mating motive  with  him  now.  After  the  mas- 
querade had  been  mentioned  he  himself  spoke 
about  it.  In  the  fullness  of  his  joy  it  slipped  from 
him  incidentally  in  the  course  of  conversation, 


i 


*■■ 


•(JWPJN.H^iiHtvV^ 


212 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM, 


m 

El  '  i 
r 


-and  Hilda,  after  wondering  why  he  should  men- 
tion such  a  thing,  began  to  wonder  what  inter- 
est the  thing  might  have  to  him.  No  doubt  he 
was  going.  Of  that  she  f'jlt  assured.  If  so,  the 
mysterious  being  to  whom  ^jhe  believed  he  was 
devoted  would  necessarily  hf.  *iiere  too.  She  be- 
lieved that  the  expectation  of  being  there  with 
her  had  so  intoxicated  him  that  this  masquerade 
was  the  chip/  thing  in  his  thoughts,  ancl  there- 
fore he  had  made  mention  of  it.  So  she  watch- 
ed to  find  out  the  meaning  of  this. 

One  day  a  parcel  came  for  Lord  Chetwynde. 
The  servants  were  out  of  sight,  and  she  opened 
it.  It  was  a  buit  of  clothes  in  the  Cavalier  fash- 
ion, with  every  accessory  necessary  to  make  up 
the  costume.  The  meaning  of  this  was  at  once 
evident  to  her.  He  was  going  to  this  masquer- 
ade as  a  Cavalier.  What  then  ?  This  discovery 
at  once  made  plain  before  her  all  that  she  might 
do.  Under  these  circumstances  it  would  be  pos- 
sible for  her  to  follow  and  to  track  him.  Per- 
haps her  own  good  fortune  and  cleverness  might 
enable  her  to  discover  the  one  to  whom  he  was 
devoted.  But  a  complete  disguise  was  necessary 
for  herself.  She  was  not  long  in  choosing  such 
a  disguise.  She  decided  upon  the  costume  of  the 
Compagnia  delta  Misericordia — one  which  was' 
eminently  Florentine,  and,  ai  the  same  time,  bet- 
ter adapted  for  purposes  of  concealment  than  any 
other  could  possibly  be.  It  consists  of  a  black 
robe  with  a  gix'dle,  and  a  hood  thrown  over  the 
head  in  such  a  way  as  to  show  only  tiie  eyes.  It 
would  be  as  suitable  a  disguise  for  a  woman  as 
for  a  man,  and  would  give  no  possible  chance  of 
recognition.  At  the  same  time,  belonging  as  it 
did  to  that  famous  Florentine  society,  it  would 
be  recognized  by  all,  and  while  insuring  a  com- 
plete disguise,  would  excite  no  comment. 

Lord  Chetwynde  left  early  on  the  morning  of 
the  fete,  taking  his  costume  with  him,  showing 
Hilda  that  he  was  evidently  going  in  company 
with  others.  It  was  with  great  impatience  that 
she  waited  the  progress  of  the  hours ;  and  when, 
at  length,  the  time  came,  and  she  was  deposited 
at  the  gate  of  the  Villa  liinalci,  hei-  agitation  was 
excessive.  Entering  here,  she.found  the  grounds 
illuminated. 

They  were  extensive,  and  filled  with  groves 
and  spacious  avenues  and  dashing  fountains  and 
beautiful  sculptures.  Already  a  large  crowd  had 
assembled,  and  Hilda  walked  among  them,  watch- 
ing on  every  side  for  the  man  whom  she  sought. 
In  so  large  a  place  as  this,  where  the  grot'ids 
were  so  extensive,  it  was  difficult  indeed  to  find 
any  particular  person,  and  two  hours  passed  away 
in  a  vain  search.  But  she  was  patient  and  de- 
termined, and  there  was  but  one  idea  in  her  mind. 
The  music  andthe  gayety  of  the  assembled  throng 
did  not  for  one  moment  divert  her,  though  this 
was  the  first  scene  of  the  kind  that  she  had  ever 
beheld,  and  its  novelty  might  well  have  attracted 
her  attention.  The  lights  which  flashed  out  so 
brightly  through  the  gloom  of  night — the  noisy 
crowds  which  thronged  every  whore — the  flam- 
ing spray  that  danced  upward  from  the  fountains, 
gleaming  in  the  light  of  the  lamps — the  thousand 
(scenes  of  mirth  and  re'  elry  that  arose  on  every 
side — all  these  had  no  attraction  for  this  woman, 
who  had  come  here  for  one  purpose  only,  and 
who  carried  this  purpose  deep  in  her  heart.  The 
conipany  wore  every  imaginable  attire.  Most  of 
them  were  iu  mu^ks,  but  some  of  them  had  none ; 


while  Hilda,  in  her  mournful  robe,  that  spoke  to 
all  of  death  and  funer'>al  rites,  was  alone  in  the 
singularity  of  her  costume. 

She  wandered  throughout  all  the  grounds,  and 
through  the  villa  itself,  in  search  of  one  thing, 
but  that  one  thing  she  could  not  find.  At  length 
her  weary  feet  refused  to  support  her  any  lon- 
ger in  what  seemed  a  hopeless  search,  and  she 
sat  down  near  one  of  the  fountains  in  the  cen- 
tral avenue,  and  gave  herself  up  to  despondent 
thoughts. 

About  half  an  hour  passed,  when  suddenly  two 
figures  approached  that  riveted  her  attention. 
They  were  a  man  and  a  woman.  Her  heart  beat 
fast.  There  was  no  mistake  about  the  man.  His 
dress  was  the  dress  which  she  herself  had  seen 
and  examined.  He  wore  a  domino,  but  beneath 
it  could  be  seen  his  whiskers,  cut  after  the  En- 
glish fashion,  and  long  and  pendent.  But  Hilda 
knew  that  face  so  familiarly  that  there  was  no 
doubt  in  her  mind,  although  she  only  saw  the  low- 
er portion.  And  a  woman  was  with  him,  rest- 
ing on  his  arm.  They  passed  by  her  in  silence. 
Hilda  waited  till  they  had  gone  by,  and  then 
arose  and  followed  stealthily.  Now  had  come 
the  time  for  discovery,  perhaps  for  vengeance. 
In  her  wild  impulse  she  had  brought  a  dagger 
with  her,  which  she  had  secreted  in  her  breast. 
As  she  followed  her  hand  played  mechanically 
with  the  hilt  of  this  dagger.  It  was  on  this  that 
she  had  instinctively  placed  her  ultimate  resolve. 
They  walked  on  swiftly,  but  neither  of  them  turn- 
ed to  see  whether  they  were  followed  or  not. 
The  idea  of  such  a  thing  never  seemed  to  have  en- 
tered into  the  mind  of  either  of  them.  After  a 
time  they  left  the  avenue,  and  turned  into  a  side- 
path  ;  and,  following  its  course,  they  went  on- 
ward to  the  more  remote  parts  of  the  grounds. 
Here  there  were  but  few  peojile,  and  these  grew 
fewer  as  they  went  on.  At  length  they  came  to 
the  end  of  this  path,  and  turned  to  the  right. 
Hilda  hurried  onward  stealthily,  and,  turning, 
saw  an  arbor  embowered  among  the  trees.  Near 
by  was  a  light,  which  hung  from  the  branch  of 
a  tree  on  one  side.  She  heard  low  voices,  and 
knew  that  they  had  gone  into  the  arbor.  She 
crept  up  behind  it,  and  got  close  "to  it — so  close, 
indeed,  that  they,  while  sitting  at  the  back,  had 
but  a  few  inches  between  themselves  and  this  list- 
ener. The  rays  of  the  lantern  shone  in,  so  that 
Hilda  could  see,  as  they  sat  between  her  and  the 
light,  the  outlines  of  their  forms.  But  that  light 
was  obstructed  by  the  leaves  that  clung  to  the 
arbor,  and  in  the  shadow  their  features  were  in- 
visible. Two  dark  figures  were  before  her,  and 
that  was  all. 

"  We  can  stay  here  alone  for  some  time,"  said 
Lord  Chetwynde,  after  a  long  silence.  He  spoke 
in  a  whisper,  which,  however,  was  perfectly  aud- 
ible to  Hilda. 

"  Yes,"  said  the  other,  speaking  in  the  same 
whisper.  "  He  is  amusing  himself  in  the  (irand 
Avenue." 

"  And  we  have  an  hour,  at  least,  to  ourselves. 
We  are  to  meet  him  at  the  Grand  Fountain.  He 
will  wait  for  us." 

There  was  another  silence. 

Hilda  heard  this  with  strange  feelings.  Who 
was  this  he  of  whom  they  spoke  ?  Was  he  the 
husband  of  this  woman  ?  Of  course.  There  was 
no  other  explanation.  They  could  not  be  so  can- 
tious  and  so  regardful  about  any  other.     Nor,  in- 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


ffiS 


was 

3RI1- 

in- 


deed,  did  the  thought  of  any  other  come  into  her 
mind  in  that  hour  of  excitement.  She  thought 
that  she  could  understand  it  all.  Could  she  but 
And  out  this  woman's  name,  then  it  would  be  pos- 
sible to  take  vengeance  in  a  better  and  less  dan- 
gerous way  than  by  using  the  dagger.  She  could 
find  out  tliis  injured  husband,  and  use  him  as  an 
instrument  for  vengeance.  And,  as  this  thought 
came  to  her,  she  sheathed  her  dagger. 

The  conversation  began  again.  As  before,  it 
was  in  a  whisper. 

"  We  are  secluded  here.  No  one  can  see  us. 
It  is  as  quiet  as  our  kiosk  at  the  villa." 

"Heavens!"  thought  Hilda.  "A  trysting- 
place!" 

A  sigh  escaped  the  other. 

"You  are  sighing,"  said  Lord  Chetwynde. 
"  Are  you  unhappy  ?" 

"I'm  only  too  happy ;  but  I — I — I'm  thinking 
of  the  future." 

"Don't  think  of  the  future.  The  present  is 
our  only  concern.  When  I  think  of  the  future, 
I  feel  as  though  I  should  go  mad.  The  future ! 
My  God !  Let  mo  banish  it  from  my  thoughts. 
Help  me  to  forget  it.     You  alone  can  !" 

And  even  in  that  whisper,  which  reached 
Hilda's  ears,  there  was  an  impacsioned  and  in- 
finite tenderness  which  pierced  !ie:'  heart. 

"  Oh  God !"  she  thought,  "  how  he  loves  her ! 
And  I — what  hope  have  I  ?" 

"  What  blessed  fortune  was  it,"  resumed  Lord 
Chetwynde,  "  that  led  me  to  yon  here  in  Flor- 
ence— that  brought  us  both  here  to  this  one  place, 
and  threw  us  again  into  one  another's  society? 
When  I  left  you  at  Marseilles  I  thought  that  I 
had  lost  you  forever !" 

The  lady  said  notliing. 

But  Hilda  had  already  learned  this  much — 
first,  that  both  were  English.  The  lady,  even 
in  her  whisper,  showed  this.  Again,  she  learned 
that  they  had  met  before,  and  had  enjoyed  one 
another's  society  in  this  way.  Where  ?  At  Mar- 
seilles. Her  vivid  imagination  at  once  brought 
before  her  a  way  in  which  this  might  have  been 
done.  She  was  traveling  with  her  husband,  and 
Lord  Chetwynde  had  met  her.  Probably  they 
had  sailed  in  the  same  steamer.  Possibly  they 
had  come  all  the  way  from  India  together.  This 
now  became  her  conviction. 

"Have  you  forgotten  Marseilles?"  continued 
Lord  Chetwynde.  "  Do  you  remember  our  last 
sail  ?  do  you  remember  our  last  ride  ?" 

"  Yes,"  sighed  the  lady.  ' 

"  And  do  you  remember  what  I  said?" 

"I  have  not  forgotten." 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"This  can  not  Ust  much  longer,"  said  Lord 
Chetwynde.     " I  must  go  to  India." 

He  stopped. 

The  lady's  head  sank  forward.  Hilda  could 
see  this  through  the  shadows  of  the  foliage. 

"It  can  not  last  much  longer,"  said  Ijord  Chet- 
wynde, in  a  louder  voice,  and  a  groan  escaped  him 
as  he  spoke.  "  I  must  leave  you ;  I  must  leave 
you  forever!" 

He  paused,  and  folding  his  arms,  leaned  back, 
while  Hilda  saw  that  his  frame  was  shaken  with 
extraordinary  excitement.  At  length  he  leaned 
forward  again.  Ho  caught  her  hand  and  held 
it.  The  lady  so*  motionless,  nor  did  she  nttom|)t 
to  withdraw  her  hand.  They  sat  in  jip.rfeot  si- 
lence for  a  long  time,  but  the  deep  breathing  of 


each,  which  seemed  like  long-drawn  sighs,  was 
audible  to  Hilda,  as  she  listened  there ;  and  it 
told  how  strong  was  the  emotion  within  them. 
But  the  one  who  listened  was  the  prey  of  an  emo- 
tion as  mighty  as  theirs. 

Neither  of  these  three  was  conscious  of  time. 
Wrapped  up  in  their  own  feelings,  they  were  over- 
whelmed by  a  tide  of  passion  that  made  them 
oblivious  of  all  things  else.  There  were  the 
lovers,  and  there  was  the  vigilant  watcher;  but 
which  of  these  three  was  a  prey  to  the  strongest 
emotion  it  would  be  difficult  to  tell.  On  the  one 
side  was  the  mighty  power  of  love ;  on  the  other 
the  dread  force  of  hate.  Tenderness  dwelt  here ; 
vengeance  waited  there.  Close  together  were 
these  three,  but  while  Hilda  heard  even  the  very 
breathing  of  the  levers,  they  were  unconscious  of 
her  presence,  a».d  heard  not  the  beating  of  that 
baleful  heart,  which  now,  filled  with  quenchless 
hate,  throbbed  vehemently  and  rapidly  in  the  fury 
of  the  hour. 

Unconscious  of  all  else,  and  oblivious  of  the 
outer  world — and  why?  They  loved.  Euough. 
Each  knew  the  love  of  the  other,  though  no  woids 
had  spoken  it. 

"Oh,  my  friend!"  suddenly  exclaimed  Lord 
Chetwynde,  in  a  voice  which  was  low  and  deep 
and  full  of  passion — a  voice  which  was  his  own, 
and  no  longer  a  whisper — "Oh,  my  friend!  my 
beloved  !  forgive  my  words ;  forgive  my  wild- 
ness,  my  passion  ;  forgive  my  love.  It  is  agony 
to  me  when  I  know  that  I  must  lose  you.  Soon 
we  must  part ;  I  must  go,  my  beloved!  my  own! 
I  must  go  to  the  other  end  of  the  earth,  and  nev- 
er, never,  never  more  can  we  hope  to  meet  again. 
How  can  I  give  you  up  ?  There  is  a  gulf  between 
us  that  divides  you  from  me.  How  can  I  live 
without  you  ?" 

These  words  poured  forth  from  him  in  passion- 
ate impetuosity — burning  words  they  were,  and 
the  lady  whose  hand  he  clasped  seemed  to  quiv- 
er and  tremble  in  sympathy  with  their  meaning. 
He  clung  to  her  hand.  Every  moment  deprived 
him  more  and  more  of  that  self-restraint  and  that 
profound  consideration  for  her  which  he  had  so 
long  maintained.  Never  before  had  he  so  for- 
gotten himself  as  to  speak  words  like  these.  But 
now  separation  was  near,  and  she  was  alone  with 
him,  and  the  hour  and  the  opportunity  were 
his. 

' '  I  can  not  give  yon  up.  My  life  without  you 
is  intolerable,"  he  groaned.  "God  knows  how 
I  have  struggled  against  this.  You  know  how 
faithfidly  I  have  kept  a  guard  over  my  words  and 
acts.  But  now  my  longing  overmasters  me.  My 
future  is  like  hell  without  you.  Oh,  love!  oh, 
Ella !  listen  to  me !  Can  you  give  me  up  ?  Will 
you  be  willing  to  do  wrong  for  my  sake  ?  Will 
you  come,  with  me  f" 

A  deep  silence  followed,  broken  by  a  sob  from 
the  lady. 

"You  are  mine!  you  are  mine!"  ho  cried. 
"  Do  not  let  me  go  away  into  desolation  and  de- 
spair. Come  with  me.  We  will  fly  to  India. 
We  will  be  happy  there  through  life.  We  will 
forget  all  the  miseries  that  we  have  known  in 
the  great  joy  that  we  will  have  in  one  another's 
presence.  Say  that  you  will.  See !  I  give  up 
every  thing ;  I  throw  all  considerations  to  the 
winds.  I  trample  even  on  honor  and  duty  for 
your  sake,     (^ome  with  me  !" 

He  paused,  breathless  fi-om  the  terrible  emo- 


w 


214 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


tion  that  had  now  overpowered  him.  The  lady 
trembled.  She  tried  to  withdraw  lier  hand,  but 
he  clung  to  it.  She  staggered  to  her  feet,  and 
stood  trembling. 

"  Oh  !"  she  faltered,  "  do  not  tempt  me !  I 
am  weak.     I  am  nothing.     Do  not;  do  not!" 

"Tempt  you?  No,  no!"  cried  Lord  Chet- 
wynde,  feverishly.  ' '  Do  not  say  so.  I  ask  you 
only  to  save  me  from  despair." 

He  rose  to  his  feet  as  he  said  this,  and  stood  by 
her,  stiil  holding  that  hand  which  he  would  not 
relinquish.  And  the  one  who  watched  them  in 
her  agony  saw  an  anguisii  as  intense  as  hers  in 
that  quivering  frame  which  half  shrank  away 
from  Lord  Chetwynde,  and  half  advanced  toward 
him ;  in  those  hands,  one  of  which  was  held  in 
his,  while  the  other  was  clasped  to  her  heart; 
and  in  Lord  Chetwynde  himself,  who,  though  he 
81  '  'here  before  her,  yet  stood  trembling  from 
hi  %  in  the  frightful  agitation  of  the  hour. 

Ai.  ilda  saw,  and  as  she  saw  it  she  learned 

this-  ,..,  all  the  hopes  which  she  had  ever  form- 
ed of  winning  this  n:  an  to  herself  were  futile  and 
baseless  and  impos'ible.  In  that  moment  they 
faded  away;  and  what  was  left?  Wiiat?  Venge- 
ance ! 

Suddenly  Lord  Chetwynde  roused  himself  from 
the  struggle  that  raged  within  him.  It  was  as 
though  he  had  resolved  to  put  an  end  to  all  these 
conflicts  with  himself  He  dragged  Zillah  toward 
him.  Wildly  and  madly  he  seized  her.  He 
flung  his  arms  about  her,  and  {tressed  her  to  his 
heart. 

"  My  love!  my  darling !"  he  exclaimed,  in  low 
tones  that  were  broken,  and  scarce  audible  in  the 
intensity  of  his  emotion,  "you  can  not — you  will 
not — you  dare  not  refuse  me !" 

Zillah  at  first  was  overwhelmed  by  tiiis  sudden 
outbm-st.  But  soon,  by  a  mighty  eft'ort,  she 
seemed  to  gain  control  over  herself.  She  tore 
herself  away,  and  staggered  back  a  few  paces. 

"Spare  mel"  she  gasped.  "Have  pity! 
have  mercy !  If  you  love  me,  I  implore  you  by 
your  love  to  be  merciful !  I  am  so  weak.  As 
you  hope  for  heaven,  spare  me  !" 

She  was  trembling  violently,  and  her  words 
were  scarcely  coherent.  At  tlie  deep  r.nd  pite- 
ous entreaty  of  her  voice  Lord  Chetwynde's  heart 
was  touched.  With  a  violent  eft'ort  he  seemed 
to  regain  his  self-control.  A  moment  before  he 
had  been  possessed  of  a  wild,  ungovernable  pas- 
sion, which  swept  all  things  away.  But  now  this 
was  succeeded  by  a  calm,  and  he  stood  for  a  time 
silent. 

"  You  will  forgive  me,"  he  said  at  last,  sadly. 
"  You  are  more  noble  than  I  am.  You  do  right 
to  refuse  me.  My  request  seems  to  you  like  mad- 
ness. Yes,  yon  are  right  to  refuse,  even  though 
I  go  into  despair.  But  listen,  and  j'ou  will  see 
how  it  is.  I  love  you,  but  can  never  win  you, 
for  there  is  a  gulf  between  us.  You  may  have 
suspected — I  am  married  already !  Between  us 
there  stands  one  who  keeps  us  forever  asunder ; 
and  —  that  —  one — / —  hate  —  worse  —  than  — 
death  >" 

He  sjjoke  these  last  words  slowly,  and  with  a 
savage  emphasis,  into  which  all  the  intensity  of 
his  love  had  sent  an  indescribable  bitterness. 

And  there  was  one  who  heard  those  words, 
in  whose  ears  they  rang  like  a  death-knell ;  one 
crouched  behind  among  the  shrubbery,  wliose 
hands  clung  to  the  lattice  of  the  arbor;  who, 


though  secure  in  her  concealment,  could  scarcely 
hide  the  anguish  which  raged  within  her.  At 
these  words  the  anguish  burst  forth.  A  groan 
escaped  her,  and  all  her  senses  seemed  to  fail  in 
th  '  moment  of  agony, 
\h  gave  a  cry. 

v'hat  was  that  ?    Did  you  hear  it  ?"  she  ex- 
led,  catching  Lord  Chetwynde's  arm. 
.ard  Chetwynde  had  heard  it  also. 

"It's  nothing,"  said  he,  after  listening  for  a 
moment.     ' '  Perhaps  it's  one  of  the  deer. " 

"I'm  afraid,"  said  Zillah. 

"  Afraid !     Am  not  /  with  you  ?" 

" Let  us  go,"  murmured  Zillah.  "The  place 
is  dreadful ;  I  can  scarcely  breathe." 

"  Take  off  your  mask,"  said  Lord  Chetwynde; 
and  with  trembling  hands  he  assisted  her  to  re- 
move it.  His  tone  and  manner  reassured  her. 
She  began  to  think  that  the  sound  was  nothing 
after  all.  Lord  Chetwynde  himself  thought  but 
little  of  it.  His  own  excitement  had  been  so  in- 
tense that  every  thing  else  was  disregarded.  He 
saw  that  she  was  alarmed,  but  attributed  this  to 
the  excitement  which  she  had  undergone.  He 
now  did  his  best  to  soothe  her,  and  in  his  new- 
found calm  he  threw  away  that  imjtetuosity 
which  had  so  overpowered  her.  At  last  she  re- 
gained something  like  her  former  self-possession. 

"We  must  go  back,"  said  he  at  length. 
"Wait  here  a  few  moments,  and  I  will  go  up 
the  path  a  short  distance  to  see  if  the  way  is 
clear. " 

He  went  out,  and  went,  as  he  said,  a  little 
distance  up  the  path. 

Scarcely  had  his  footsteps  died  out  in  the  riis- 
tance  wiien  Zillah  he.ard  a  noise  directly  be'iind 
her.  She  started.  In  h-»r  agitated  state  she  was 
a  prey  to  any  feeling,  and  a  icror  crept  over  her. 
She  hastened  out  with  the  intention  of  following 
Lord  Chetwynde. 

The  figure,  crouching  low  behind  the  arbor, 
had  seen  Lord  Chetwynde's  departure.  Now 
her  time  had  come — the  time  for  vengeance! 
His  bitter  words  had  destroyed  all  hope,  and  all 
of  that  patient  cunning  which  she  might  other- 
wise have  observed.  Blind  with  rage  and  pas- 
sion, there  was  only  one  thought  in  her  mind, 
and  that  was  instant  and  immediate  vengeance. 
Siie  caught  her  dagger  in  her  hand,  and  strode 
out  upon  her  victim. 

The  light  which  hung  from  the  branch  of  the 
tree  shone  upon  the  arbor.  The  back-ground 
was  gloomy  in  the  dense  shadow,  while  the  in- 
tervening space  was  illumined.  Hilda  took  a 
few  quick  paces,  clutching  her  dagger,  and  in  a 
moment  she  reached  the  place.  But  in  that  in- 
stant she  beheld  a  sigiit  which  sent  through  her 
a  pang  of  sudden  horror — so  sharp,  so  intense, 
and  accompanied  by  so  dread  a  fear,  that  she 
seemed  to  turn  to  stone  as  she  gazed. 

It  was  a  slender  figure,  clothed  in  white, 
with  a  white  mantle  gathered  close  about  the 
throat,  and  flowing  down.  The  face  was  white, 
and  in  this  dim  light,  defined  against  the  dark 
back-ground  of  trees,  it  seemed  like  the  face  of 
the  dead.  The  eyes — large,  lustrous,  burning — 
were  fixed  on  her,  and  seemed  filled  with  con- 
suming fire  as  they  fastened  themselves  on  her. 
The  dark  hair  hung  down  in  vast  voluminous 
folds,  and  by  its  contrast  added  to  the  marble 
whiteness  of  that  face.  And  that  face !  It  was 
a  face  which  was  never  absent  from  her  thoughts, 


m- 
)k  ii 
in  i\ 

in- 

her 
snse, 

she 


THE  CFYPTOGRAM. 


2\l 


f 


BUK    BEHKLD 


SIGHT   WHICH    8KNT   THKODOH    HER 


PANG  OF  HORROR. 


a  face  which  haunted  her  dreams — the  face  of 
iier  victim — the  fiice  of  Zillnh ! 

Hilda  had  only  one  thoiif^ht,  and  that  was  this, 
that  the  sea  had  given  up  its  dend,  and  that  her 
victim  had  come  to  confront  her  now ;  in  the 


other  victim.  It  was  but  for  an  instant  that  she 
stood,  yet  in  that  instant  a  thousand  thoughts 
swept  through  her  mind.  Hut  for  nn  instant ; 
and  then,  with  a  loud,  piercing  shriek,  she  leaped 
hack,  and  with  a  thrill  of  mortal  terror  iilnnged 


hour  of  vengeance  to  stand  between  her  and  an-  {  into  the  thick  wood  and  fled  afar — fled  with  the 


216 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


feeling  that  the  avenger  was  following  fast  after 
her. 

The  shriek  roused  Lord  Chetwynde.  He 
rushed  back.  Zillah  had  fainted,  and  was  lying 
senseless  on  the  grass.  He  raised  her  in  his 
arms,  and  held  her  pressed  convulsively  to  his 
heart,  looking  with  unutterable  longing  upon  her 
pale  face,  and  pressing  his  burning  lijis  to  her 
cold  brow.  There  was  a  great  terror  in  his  heart, 
for  he  could  not  think  what  it  might  be  tiiat  had 
happened,  and  he  feared  that  some  sndden  alarm 
had  done  this.  Bitterly  he  reproached  himself 
for  so  agitating  her.  He  had  excited  her  with 
his  despair;  and  she,  in  her  agitation,  had  be- 
come an  easy  prey  to  any  sudden  fear.  Some- 
thing had  happened,  he  could  not  tell  what,  but 
he  feared  that  he  had  been  to  some  extent  the 
cause,  by  the  agitation  which  he  had  excited 
within  her.  All  these  thoughts  and  fears  were 
in  his  mind  as  he  held  her  upraised  in  his  arms, 
and  looked  wildly  around  for  some  means  of  re- 
storing her.  A  fountain  was  playing  not  far 
away,  under  the  trees,  andthe  babble  of  running 
water  came  to  his  ears  amidst  the  deep  stillness. 
There  he  carried  his  precious  burden,  and  dashed 
water  in  her  face,  and  chafed  her  hands,  and 
murmured  all  the  time  a  thousand  words  of  love 
and  tenderness.  To  him,  in  his  intense  anxie- 
ty, the  moments  seemed  hours,  and  the  passage 
of  every  moment  threw  him  into  despair.  But 
at  last  she  revived,  and  finally  opened  her  eyes  to 
see  the  face  of  Lord  Chetwynde  bending  over 
her. 

"  Thank  God !"  he  murmured,  as  her  opening 
eyes  met  his. 

"])o  not  leave  me!"  moaned  Zillah.  "/< 
may  come  again,  and  if  it  does  I  shall  die !" 

"Leave  you!"  said  Lord  Chetwynde;  and 
then  he  said  nothing  more,  but  pressed  her  hand 
'n  silence. 

After  a  few  moments  she  arose,  and  leaning 
heavily  on  his  arm  she  walked  with  him  up  the 
path  toward  the  foimtain.  On  the  way,  with 
many  starts  and  shudders  of  sndden  fear,  she 
told  him  wiiat  had  happened.  She  had  heard  a 
noise  among  the  trees,  and  had  hurried  out, 
when  suddenly  a  figure  rushed  up  to  her — an 
awful  figure!  It  wore  a  black  robe,  and  over 
its  head  was  a  cowl  with  two  holes  for  the  eyes. 
This  figure  waved  its  arms  wildly,  and  finally 
gave  a  long,  wild  yell,  which  pierced  to  her 
heart.  She  fell  senseless.  Never  while  life  lasts, 
she  said,  would  she  be  able  to  forget  that  ab- 
hoiTent  cry. 

Lord  Chetwynde  listened  eagerly. 

"That  dress,"  he  said,  "is  the  costume  of  a 
Florentine  society  that  devotes  itself  to  the  burial 
of  the  dead.  Some  one  has  worn  it  here.  I'm 
afraid  we  have  been  watched.     It  looks  like  it." 

"  Watched!  who  could  think  of  such  a  thing?" 

"I  don't  know,"  said  Lord  Ciietwynde, 
thoughtfully.  "It  may  have  been  accidental. 
Some  masker  has  watched  us,  and  has  tried  to 
frighten  you.  That  is  all.  If  I  thought  that  we 
could  have  any  enemy,  I  would  say  tiiat  it  was 
his  work.  But  that  is  impossible.  We  are  un- 
known here.  At  any  rate,  you  must  not  think 
that  there  has  been  anv  thing  supernatural  about 
it.  It  seems  to  me,'  he  concluded,  "that  we 
have  been  mistaken  for  some  others." 

This  way  of  accounting  for  it  served  to  quiet 
Zillah's  fears,  and  by  the  time  that  they  reached 


the  fountain  she  was  more  calm.  Obed  Chute 
was  waiting  there,  and  as  she  pleaded  fatigue, 
he  at  once  had  the  carriage  ordered. 


CHAPTJiR  LXV.  .     . 

Hilda's   decision. 

Hilda  fled,  and  continued  long  in  that  frantic 
flight  through  the  tliick  woods.  As  the  branches 
of  the  underbrush  crackled  behind  her,  it  seemed 
to  her  that  it  was  the  noise  of  pursuit,  and  the 
horror  of  that  unexpected  vision  was  before  her, 
for  to  face  it  again  seemed  to  her  worse  than 
death.  She  was  strong  of  soul  naturally ;  her 
nerves  were  not  such  as  give  way  beneath  the 
pressure  of  .i;.iagination;  she  was  not  a  woman 
who  was  in  any  degree  liable  to  the  ordinary 
weaknesses  of  a  woman's  nature;  but  the  last 
few  months  had  opened  new  feelings  within  her, 
and  under  the  assault  of  those  fierce,  resistless 
feelings  the  strength  of  her  nature  had  given 
way.  ■  Even  had  she  possessed  all  her  old 
strength,  the  sight  of  this  unparalleled  appari- 
tion might  have  overwhelmed  her,  but  as  it  was, 
it  seemed  to  make  her  insane.  Already  shaken 
to  her  inmost  soul  by  long  suffering  and  wild 
alternations  of  feeling,  she  had  that  night  at- 
tained the  depths  of  despair  in  those  words  which 
she  had  overheard.  Immediately  upon  that 
there  came  the  direful  phantom,  which  she  felt 
that  she  could  not  look  upon  and  live.  That 
face  seemed  to  burn  itself  into  her  mind.  It  was 
before  her  as  she  fled,  and  a  great  horror  thrilled 
through  her,  driving  her  onward  blindly  and 
wildly,  until  at  last  nature  itself  gave  way,  and 
she  fell  shrieking  with  terror, 

Tiien  sense  left  her. 

How  long  she  lay  she  knew  not.  There  was 
no  one  near  to  bring  back  the  lost  sense.  She 
awaked  shuddering.  She  had  never  fainted  thus 
before,  and  it  seemed  to  her  now  as  though  she 
had  died  and  risen  again  to  the  sadness  of  life. 
Around  her  were  the  solemn  forest  trees.  The 
wind  sighed  through  their  branches.  The  sun 
was  almost  at  the  meridian.  It  was  not  mid- 
night when  she  fainted.  It  was  mid-day  almost 
when  she  recovered.  There  was  a  sore  pain  at 
her  heart ;  all  her  limbs  seemed  full  of  bruises ; 
but  she  dragged  herself  to  a  little  opening  in  the 
trees  where  the  rays  of  the  sun  came  down,  and 
there  tiie  sun's  rays  warmed  her  once  more  into 
life.  There,  as  she  sat,  she  recalled  the  events 
of  the  night.  The  horror  had  passed,  and  she  no 
longer  had  that  awful  sense  of  a  pursuing  phan- 
tom ;  but  there  remained  the  belief,  fixed  within 
her  sold,  that  she  had  seen  the  form  of  the  dead. 
She  was  not  superstitious,  but  in  this  instance 
the  sight,  and  the  effects  of  that  sight,  had  been 
so  tremendous  that  she  could  not  reason  them 
away. 

She  tried  to  dismiss  these  thoughts.  What 
was  she  to  do?  She  knew  not.  And  now  as 
she  thought  there  came  back  to  her  the  remem- 
brance of  Lord  Chetwynde's  words,  and  the  ut- 
terance of  his  hate.  This  recollection  rose  up 
above  the  remembrance  of  her  terrors,  and  gave 
her  something  else  for  thought.  What  should 
she  do?  Should  she  give  up  her  purpose  and 
return  to  England  ?  This  seemed  to  her  intol- 
erable.     Chetwynde  Castle  had  no  attractions ; 


TJE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


217 


lute 


ould 
and 

ntol- 
008; 


and  even  if  she  were  now  assured  beyond  all 
doubt  that  she  should  be  for  all  the  rest  of  her 
life  the  acknowledged  mistress  of  Chetwynde — 
even  if  the  coronet  were  fixed  on  her  brow  be- 
yond the  (.hiince  of  removal — even  if  the  court 
and  the  ari8''>cracy  of  England  were  eager  to  re- 
ceive her  into  their  midst — yet  even  then  she 
found  in  these  things  nothing  which  could  allevi- 
ate her  grief,  and  nothing  which  could  afford  any 
attructi(m.  Her  life  was  now  penetrated  with 
one  idea,  and  that  idea  was  all  set  upon  Lord 
Chetwynde.  If  he  was  lost  to  her,  then  there 
was  only  one  of  two  alternatives — death  to  her- 
self, or  vengeance.  Could  she  die?  Not  yet. 
From  that  she  turned,  not  in  fear,  but  rather 
from  a  feeling  that  something  yet  remained  to 
be  done.  And  now,  out  of  all  her  thoughts  and 
feelings,  the  idea  of  vengeance  rose  up  fiercely 
and  irresistibly.  It  returned  with  something  of 
that  vehemence  which  had  marked  its  presence 
on  the  previous  night,  when  she  rushed  forth  to 
satisfy  it,  but  was  so  fearfully  arrested.  But 
how  could  she  now  act  ?  8he  felt  as  though  the 
effort  after  vengeance  would  draw  her  once  more 
to  confront  the  thing  of  horror  which  she  had  al- 
ready met  with.     Could  she  face  it  again  ? 

Amidst  all  these  thoughts  there  came  to  her 
the  memory  of  Gualtier.  lie  was  yet  faithful, 
she  believed,  and  ready  to  act  for  her  in  any 
way,  even  if  it  required  the  sacrifice  of  his  own 
life.  To  him  she  could  now  turn.  He  could 
now  do  what  she  could  not.  If  she  had  him  once 
more  to  act  as  her  right  hand,  she  might  use 
him  as  a  means  for  observation  and  for  venge- 
ance. She  felt  now  most  keenly  her  own  weak- 
ness, and  longed  with  a  weary  sense  of  desola- 
tion for  some  one  who  might  assist  her,  and  do 
this  work  which  lay  before  her. 

At  last  she  rose  to  go.  The  warmth  of  the 
sun  had  restored  something  of  her  strength. 
The  new  resolutions  which  she  had  formed  had 
given  energy  to  her  soul.  She  wandered  about 
thro'  _,h  the  wood,  and  at  length  reached  a  stone- 
wall. It  looked  like  the  boundary  of  the  villa. 
She  followed  this  for  some  distance,  expecting 
to  reach  the  gate,  and  at  length  came  to  a  place 
where  a  rock  arose  by  the  side  of  the  wall.  Go- 
ing up  to  the  top  of  this,  she  looked  over  the  wall, 
and  saw  the  public  road  on  the  other  side,  with 
Florence  in  the  distance.  She  saw  pfetty  nearly 
where  she  was,  and  knew  that  this  was  the  near- 
est point  to  her  lodgings.  To  go  back  to  the 
chief  entrance  would  require  a  long  detour.  It 
would  also  excite  surprise.  One  in  her  peculiar 
costume,  on  going  out  of  the  grounds,  might  be 
questioned ;  she  thought  it  better  to  avoid  this. 
She  looked  up  and  down  the  road,  and  seeing  no 
one  coming,  she  stepped  to  the  top  of  the  wall 
and  let  herself  down  on  the  o[)posite  side.  In  a 
few  moments  she  was  on  the  road,  on  her  way 
back  to  Florence.  Reaching  the  city,  she  at  once 
went  to  tlie  hotel,  and  arrived  at  her  rooms  with- 
out observation. 

That  same  day  she  sent  off  an  urgent  letter  to 
Gualtier,  asking  him  to  come  to  Florence  at  once. 

After  this  excitement  she  kept  her  bed  for  a 
few  days.  Lord  Chetwynde  heard  that  she  was 
ill  without  expressing  any  emotion.  When  at 
length  he  saw  her  he  spoke  in  his  usual  court- 
eous manner,  and  expressed  his  pleivsure  at  see- 
ing her  again.  But  these  empty  words,  which 
used  to  excite  so  much  hope  within  her,  now  fell 


indifferently  on  her  ears.  She  had  made  up  her 
mind  now.  Siie  knew  that  there  was  no  hope. 
She  had  called  to  her  side  the  minister  of  her 
vengeance.  Lord  Chetwynde  saw  her  pale  face 
and  downcast  eyes,  but  did  not  trouble  himself 
to  search  into  the  cause  of  this  new  change  in 
her.  She  seemed  to  be  growing  indifferent  to 
him,  he  thought ;  but  the  change  concerned  him 
little.  There  was  another  in  his  heart,  and  all 
his  thoughts  were  centered  on  that  other. 

After  the  masquerade  Lord  Chetwynde  had 
hurried  out  to  the  villa,  on  the  following  day,  to 
make  inquiries  about  her  health.  He  found 
Zilluh  still  much  shaken,  and  exhibiting  suili- 
cient  weakness  to  excite  his  anxiety.  Which 
of  the  many  causes  that  she  had  for  agitation 
and  trouble  might  now  be  disturbing  her  he 
could  not  tell,  but  he  sought  to  alleviate  her 
troubles  as  much  as  possible.  His  departure 
for  India  had  to  be  postponed,  for  how  could 
he  leave  her  in  such  a  state?  Indeed,  as  long 
as  Obed  Chute  remained  in  Florence  he  did  not 
see  how  ho  could  leave  for  India  at  all. 


CHAPTER  LXVr. 


FiklTHFUL   STILL. 


When  Hilda  sent  off  her  note  to  Gualtier  she 
felt  certain  that  he  would  come  to  her  aid.     All 
that  had  passed  between  them  had  not  shaken 
the  confidence  which  she  felt  in  his  willingness 
to  assist  her  in  a  thing  like  this.    She  understood 
his  feelings  so  perfectly  that  she  saw  in  this  pur- 
pose which  she  offered  him  something  which 
would  be  more  agreeable  to  him  than  any  other, 
and  all  that  he  had  ever  expressed  to  her  of  bis 
feelings  strengthened  this  view.     Even  his  at- 
tempts to  gain  the  mastery  over  her,  his  coer- 
cion by  which  he  forced  from  her  that  memora- 
ble promise,  his  rage  and  his  menaces  at  Lau- 
sanne, were  so  many  proofs  of  his  love  for  her 
and   his  malignant  hate  to  Lord  Chetwynde. 
j  The  love  which  she  had  once  despised  while  she 
i  made  use  of  it  she  now  called  to  her  aid,  so  as  to 
j  make  use  of  it  again,  not  thinking  of  what  the 
'  reward  would  be  which  he  would  claim,  not  car- 
ing what  his  hope  might  be,  indifferent  to  what- 
]  ever  the  future  might  now  reveal,  and  intent 
1  only  upon  securing  in  the  best  and  quickest  way 
j  the  accomplishment  of  her  own  vengeful  desires. 
This  confidence  which  she  felt  in  Gualtier  was 
not  unfounded,  nor  was  her  hope  disappointed. 
,  In  about  a  week  after  she  had  sent  her  letter  she 
received  an  answer.    It  was  dated  Florence.    It 
showed  that  he  had  arrived  in  the  city,  and  in- 
formed her  that  he  would  call  upon  her  as  soon 
I  as  he  could  do  so  with  safety.     There  was  no 
I  signature,  but  his  handwriting  was  well  known 
to  her,  and  told  her  who  the  writer  was. 

About  an  hour  after  her  receipt  of  the  letter 

Gualtier  himself  was  standing  in  her  presence. 

He  had  not  changed  in  appearance  since  she  last 

I  saw  him,  but  had  the  same  aspect.    Like  all  pale 

and  cadaverous  men,  or  men  of  consumptive  look, 

;  there  could  be  scarcely  any  change  in  him  which 

'  would  be  for  the  worse.    In  Hilda,  however,  there 

I  was  a  very  marked  change,  which  was  at  once 

1  manifest  to  the  searching  gaze  of  his  small,  keen 

'  eyes  hs  tlsty  rested  upon  her.     She  was  not,  in- 

,  deed,  so  wretched  in  her  appearance  as  on  that 


■>  :»p^ww>'7 


218 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


eventful  day  when  she  had  astonished  him  by  her 
arriviil  at  Lausanne.  Her  face  was  not  ema- 
ciated, nur  were  her  eyes  set  in  dark  cavernous 
hollows  as  then,  nor  was  there  on  her  brow  the 
stamp  of  mortal  weakness.  What  Gualtier  saw 
in  her  now  had  reference  to  other  things.  He 
had  seen  in  her  nervousness  and  agitation  before, 
but  now  he  marked  in  her  a  loss  of  all  her  old 
self-control,  a  certain  feverish  impatience,  a  wild 
and  unreasoning  eagerness — all  of  which  seemed 
to  rise  out  of  recklessness  and  desperation.  Her 
gestures  were  vehement,  her  words  careless  and 
impassioned  in  tone.  It  was  in  all  this  that  he 
marked  the  greatness  of  the  change  in  her.  The 
feverish  warmth  with  which  she  greeted  him  was 
of  itself  totally  different  from  her  old  manner, 
and  from  its  being  so  different  it  seemed  to  him 
unnatural.  On  the  whole,  this  change  struck  him 
])ainfully,  and  .she  seemed  to  him  rather  like  one 
in  a  kind  of  delirium  than  one  in  her  sober  senses. 

"When  1  last  bade  you  good-by,"  said  she, 
alluding  in  this  very  delicate  way  to  their  part- 
ing at  the  hotel  in  Lausanne,  "you  assured  me 
that  I  would  one  day  want  your  services.  You 
were  right.  I  was  mad,  1  have  overcome  my 
madness.  I  do  want  you,  my  friend — more  than 
ever  in  my  life  before.  You  are  the  only  one 
who  can  o.ssist  me  in  this  emergency.  You 
gave  me  six  months,  you  remember,  but  they 
are  not  nearly  up.  You  understood  my  position 
better  than  I'did." 

She  spoke  in  a  series  of  rapid  phrases,  hold- 
ing his  hand  the  while,  and  looking  at  him  with 
burning  intensity  of  gaze — a  gaze  which  Gualtier 
felt  in  his  inmost  soul,  and  which  made  his  whole 
being  thrill.  Yet  that  clasp  of  his  hand  and 
that  gaze  and  those  words  did  not  inspire  him 
with  any  pleasant  hope.  They  hardly  seemed 
like  the  acts  or  words  of  Hilda,  they  were  all  so 
nnlike  herself  Far  different  from  this  was  the 
Hilda  whom  he  had  known  and  loved  so  long. 
That  one  was  ever  present  in  his  mind,  and  had 
been  for  years — her  image  was  never  absent. 
Through  the  years  he  had  feasted  his  soul  in 
meditations  upon  her  grand  calm,  her  sublime 
self-poise,  her  statuesque  beauty,  her  superiority 
to  all  human  weakness,  whether  of  love  or  of  re- 
morse. Even  in  those  collisions  into  which  she 
liad  come  with  him  she  had  risen  in  his  estima- 
tion. AtChetwynde  she  had  shown  some  weak- 
ness, but  in  her  attitude  to  him  he  had  discov- 
ered and  had  adored  her  demoniac  beauty.  At 
Lausanne  she  had  been  even  grander,  for  then  she 
had  defied  his  worst  menaces,  and  driven  him 
utterly  discomfited  from  her  presence.  Such 
was  the  Hilda  of  his  thoughts.  He  found  her 
now  changed  from  this,  her  lofty  calm  trans- 
formed to  feverish  impatience,  her  domineering 
manner  changed  to  one  of  obsequiousness  and 
flattery.  The  qualities  which  had  once  excited 
his  admiration  appeared  now  to  have  given  way 
to  othei"s  altogether  commonplace.  He  had  part- 
ed with  her  thinking  of  her  as  a  powerful  demon, 
he  came  back  to  her  finding  her  a  weak  woman. 

But  nothing  in  his  manner  showed  his  thoughts. 
Beneath  all  these  lay  his  love,  and  the  old  devo- 
tion manifested  itself  in  his  rei)ly. 

"You  know  that  always  and  under  all  cir- 
cumstances, my  lady,  you  can  command  my 
services.  Only  one  exceptional  case  has  ever 
arisen,  and  that  you  yourself  can  understand  and 
excuse." 


Hilda  sat  down,  motioning  him  also  to  a  seat, 
and  for  a  moment  remained  silent,  leaning  her 
head  on  her  hand  in  deep  thought.  Gualtier 
waited  for  her  next  words. 

"You  must  not  expose  yourself  to  danger," 
said  she  at  length. 

"What  danger?" 

^^  He  will  recognize  you  if  he  sees  you  here." 

"  I  know  that,  and  have  guarded  against  it. 
He  is  not  at  home  now,  is  he  ?" 

"No." 

"1  knew  that  very  well,  and  waited  for  his 
departure  before  venturing  here.  I  know  very 
well  that  if  he  were  to  catch  even  the  faintest 
glimpse  of  me  he  would  recognize  me,  and  it 
would  be  somewhat  difflcult  for  me  to  escape. 
But  to-day  I  happened  to  see  him  go  out  of  the 
Porta  Livorna,  and  I  know  he  is  fur  off  by  this 
time.  So,  you  see,  I  am  as  cautious  as  ever.  On 
the  whole,  and  as  a  general  thing,  I  intend  to  be 
guided  by  circumstances.  Perhaps  a  disguise 
may  be  necessary,  but  that  depends  upon  many 
different  things.  I  will  have,  first  of  all,  to  learn 
from  you  what  it  is  that  you  want  me  to  do,  and 
then  I  can  arrange  my  plan  of  actitm.  But  be- 
fore you  begin  I  think  I  ought. to  tell  you  a  very 
remarkable  incident  which  happened  in  London 
not  long  ago — and  one,  too,  which  came  very 
near  bringing  my  career,  and  yours  also,  my 
lady,  to  a  very  sudden  and  a  very  un])leasant 
termination." 

At  this  Hilda  gave  a  start. 

"What  do  you  mean?"  she  asked,  hurriedly. 

"Oh,  only  this,  that  a  very  nice  little  trap 
was  laid  for  me  in  London,  and  if  I  had  not  been 
unusually  cautious  I  would  have  fallen  into  it. 
Had  that  been  the  case  all  would  have  been  up 
with  me;  though  as  to  you,  I  don't  see  how 
your  position  would  have  been  affected.  For," 
he  added,  with  deep  and  uncontrollable  emotion, 
"whatever  may  happen  to  me,  you  must  know 
enough  of  me  by  this  time,  in  spite  of  my  occa- 
sional rebellions,  to  be  as  sure  of  my  loyalty  to 
you  as  of  your  own  existence,  and  to  know  that 
there  could  be  no  possibility  of  my  revealing  any 
thing  about  you ;  no,"  he  added,  as  his  clenched 
fist  fell  upon  the  table,  and  his  face  flushed  up 
deeply  at  his  rising  feeling — "no,  not  even  if  it 
were  still  the  fashion  to  employ  torture;  not 
even  the  rJck  could  extort  from  me  one  syllable 
that  could  implicate  you.  After  all  that  I  have 
said,  I  swear  that  by  all  that  is  n>'^o>,  iioiy  : 

He  did  not  look  at  Hilda  :.j  he  said  this,  but 
his  eyes  were  oast  on  the  floor,  and  he  seemed 
rather  like  a  man  who  was  uttering  a  resolution 
to  '^himself  than  like  one  who  was  making  a 
statement  to  another.  But  Hilda  showed  no 
emotion  that  corresponded  with  his.  Any  dan- 
ger to  Gualtier,  even  though  she  herself  were  im- 
plicated, had  no  terrors  for  her,  and  could  not 
make  her  heart  throb  faster  by  one  single  j)ulsa- 
tion.  She  had  other  things  on  her  mind,  which 
to  her  far  outweighed  any  considerations  of  per- 
sonal danger.  Personal  danger,  indeed,  instead 
of  being  dreaded,  would  now,  in  her  present 
mood,  have  been  almost  welcomed,  so  as  to  af- 
ford some  distraction  from  the  torture  of  her 
thoughts.  In  the  secret  of  her  heart  she  more 
than  once  wished  and  longed  for  some  appalling 
calamity — something  which  might  have  power  to 
engage  all  her  thoughts  and  all  her  mind.  The 
anguish  of  her  heart,  arising  out  of  her  love  for 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


219 


Lord  Chetwynde,  had  grown  bo  intolerable  that 
any  thing,  even  danger,  even  discovery,  even 
death  itself,  seemed  welcome  now. 

It  was  this  feeling  which  filled  her  as  she  went 
on  to  ask  Gualtier  about  the  nature  of  the  danger 
which  he  had  escaped,  wishing  to  know  what  it 
might  be,  yet  inditt'erent  to  it  except  so  fur  as  it 
might  prove  to  be  a  distraction  to  her  cares. 

When  Gualtier  last  vanished  from  the  scene 
he  had  sent  the  boy  to  his  lodging-house,  with 
the  agreement  that  he  should  meet  him  at  eight 
o'clock.  The  boy's  visit  and  its  results  have  al- 
ready been  narrated. 

As  for  Gualtier,  he  was  profoundly  conscious 
all  the  while  of  the  possibility  that  a  trap  might  be 
laid  for  him,  and  that,  if  this  were  the  case,  the 
advent  of  his  messenger  would  be  seized  upon 
by  those  who  might  be  in  pursuit  of  him,  so  as  to 
get  on  his  track.  The  very  cautiousness  which 
had  caused  him  to  seek  out  so  carefully  a  proper 
messenger,  and  instruct  him  in  the  part  which  he 
was  to  play,  kept  him  on  the  anxious  look-out  for 
the  progress  of  events.  From  the  time  that  the 
boy  left  he  stationed  himself  at  the  window  of  his 
room,  which  commanded  a  view  of  the  main 
entrance,  and  watched  with  the  closest  scrutiny 
every  one  who  came  into  the  hotel.  After  a 
time  he  thought  that  the  supposed  pursuers 
might  come  in  by  some  other  entrance.  With 
this  fear  he  retreated  into  his  bedroom,  which 
also  looked  out  in  front,  and  locked  the  door. 
He  found  another  door  here  which  led  into  an 
adjoining  room,  which  was  occupied.  The  key 
of  the  door  between  the  bedroom  and  the  sitting- 
room  fitted  this  other  door,  so  that  he  was  able 
to  open  it.  The  occupant  was  not  in.  Through 
this  door  he  designed  to  retreat  in  case  of  a  sur- 
prise. But  he  still  thought  it  most  likely  that 
any  pursuers  would  come  in  by  the  main  door 
of  the  hotel,  relying  upon  his  infoiination  to  the 
boy  that  he  was  to  be  absent.  ISo  with  this  view 
he  stationed  himself  at  the  bedroom  window,  as 
he  had  at  first  stationed  liimself  at  the  sitting- 
room  window,  and  watched  the  main  entrance. 
It  was  a  task  which  needed  the  utmost  vigilance. 
A  great  crowd  was  thronging  there  and  sweep- 
ing by ;  and  among  the  multitudes  that  filled  the 
sidewalk  it  was  impossible  to  distinguish  any 
particular  forms  or  faces  except  among  those 
who  passed  up  the  steps  into  the  hotel.  Any 
one  who  had  less  at  stake  would  have  wearied 
of  such  a  task,  self-imposed  as  it  was ;  but  Gual- 
tier had  too  much  at  stake  to  allow  of  weariness, 
and  therefore  he  kept  all  his  senses  wide  awake, 
looking  with  his  eyes  at  the  main  entrance,  and 
with  his  ears  listening  to  the  footsteps  that  came 
along  the  hall,  to  discover  any'  signs  of  danger 
to  himself. 

At  last  a  cab  drove  up  and  stopped  in  front 
of  the  door.  Gualtier,  who  had  been  watching 
every  thing,  noticed  this  also.  A  man  got  out. 
The  sight  of  that  man  sent  a  shock  to  Gualtier's 
heart.  He  knew  that  face  and  that  figure  in 
spite  of  the  changed  dress.     It  was  Black  Bill. 

A  second  look  to  confirm  that  first  impres- 
sion was  enough.  Like  lightning  there  came  to 
his  mind  the  thoug!it  that  Black  Bill  had  been 
watching  for  him  ever  since  with  inexhaustible 
patience,  had  encountered  the  boy,  perhaps  with 
the  co-operation  of  the  landlord,  and  had  now 
come  to  arrest  him.  One  moment  sufflced  to 
bring  to  his  mind  the  thought,  and  the  fear  which 


was  bom  of  the  thought.  Without  waiting  to 
take  another  glance,  or  to  see  who  else  might 
be  in  the  cab,  he  hastily  unlocked  the  doors  of 
the  bedroom,  glided  into  the  hall,  passed  dow)i 
a  back  stairway,  and  left  the  hotel  by  ii  side  en- 
trance far  removed  from  the  front-door.  Then 
darting  swiftly  forward  he  mingled  with  the 
crowd  in  the  Strand,  and  was  soon  lost  to  the 
pursuit  of  any  followers. 

Such  was  Uualtier's  story.  To  all  this  strange 
account  Hilda  listened  attentively. 

"It  seems,"  said  she  at  length,  "as  though 
Black  Bill  has  been  more  persevering  than  wo 
supposed." 

"Far  more  so  than  I  supposed,"  said  Gual- 
tier. "  I  thought  that  he  would  have  given  u]) 
his  watch  long  ago ;  or  that,  whether  he  wished 
or  not,  he  had  been  forced  to  do  so  from  want  of 
resources.  But,  after  oil,  he  certainly  has  man- 
aged to  hold  on  in  some  way.  1  suppose  he  has 
secured  the  co-operation  of  the  landlord,  and  has 
got  up  some  business  at  no  great  distance  from 
the  place,  so  that  on  the  appearance  of  my  mes- 
senger he  was  sent  for  at  once." 

"  Did  you  see  the  others  in  the  cab  ?" 

"  No ;  Black  Bill  was  enough  for  me.  I  sup- 
pose the  boy  was  there  with  him." 

"Don't  you  think  it  likely  that  Black  Bill 
may  have  had  some  communication  with  the 
police?" 

"I  have  thought  over  that  question,  and  it 
does  not  seem  probable.  You  see  Black  Bill  is 
a  man  who  has  every  reason  to  keep  clear  of  the 
police,  and  the  very  information  which  he  would 
give  against  me  would  be  equally  against  him- 
self. Such  information  would  first  of  all  lead 
to  his  own  arrest.  He  would  know  that,  and 
would  keep  clear  of  them  altogether.  Besides, 
he  is  an  old  offender,  and  beyond  a  doubt  very 
well  known  to  them.  His  past  career  has,  no 
doubt,  been  marked  by  them ;  and  this  informa- 
tion which  he  would  give  would  be  to  them  mere- 
ly a  confession  of  fresh  crime.  Finding  them- 
selves unable  to  catch  me,  they  would  satisfy 
themselves  by  detaining  him.  Oh  no;  Black 
Bill  is  altogether  too  cunning  to  have  any  thing 
to  do  with  the  police." 

"All  that  you  have  been  saying,"  remarked 
Hilda,  "is  very  well  in  its  way,  but  unfortu- 
nately it  is  based  on  the  siipposition  that  Black 
Bill  would  tell  the  truth  to  the  police.  But,  on 
the  contrary,  it  is  highly  probable  that  he  would 
do  nothing  of  the  kind.  He  has  ingenuity  enough, 
no  doubt,  to  make  up  a  story  to  suit  his  particu- 
lar case,  and  to  give  it  such  a  coloring  as  to  keep 
himself  free  from  every  charge, " 

"I  don't  see  how  he  could  do  that  very  well. 
After  all,  what  would  be  the  essence  of  his  story  ? 
Simply  this :  that  a  crime  had  been  committed, 
and  that  he,  with  some  others,  had  participated 
in  it.  The  other  offenders  would  be  out  of  reach. 
What  then?  What?  Why,  Black  Bill,  from  the 
fact  of  his  own  acknowledgment,  would  be  taken 
in  charge." 

"  I  don't  see  that.  As  I  see  it,  there  are  va- 
rious ways  by  which  a  man  with  any  cunning 
could  throw  all  the  guilt  on  another.  He  might 
deny  that  he  knew  any  one  was  on  board,  but 
only  suspected  it.  He  might  swear  that  he  and 
the  rest  were  forced  into  the  boat  by  you,  he  and 
they  being  unarmed,  and  you  well  armed.  There 
are  other  suppositions  also  by  which  he  would 


"-IVW^^VWIF^  -    Ifl  ^X" 


7r^'>'-'lpr^~ 


220 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


II 


i 


be  able  to  pref<ent  himxclf  in  the  light  of  an  inno- 
cent Hsaman,  who,  forced  to  witneBS  the  commiB- 
sion  of  a  crime,  had  lost  no  time  to  communicate 
to  the  authorities  the  knowledge  of  that  crime." 

"There  is  Hometiiing  in  wliat  you  say.  But 
in  that  case  it  would  have  been  necessary  for  him 
to  inform  the  police  months  ago. " 

"  Very  well ;  and  why  may  he  not?" 

"He  may  have;  but  it  strikes  me  that  he 
would  be  more  inclined  to  work  the  thing  up 
himself;  for  in  that  case,  if  he  succeeded,  the 
prize  would  be  all  his  own." 

Some  further  discussion  followed,  and  then 
Hilda  asked : 

"I  sup|)ose,  by  the  way  you  speak,  that  you 
saw  nothing  more  of  them  ?" 

"No." 

"  You  were  not  tracked?" 

"No." 

"  Where  did  you  go  after  leaving  the  hotel  ?" 

"  I  left  London  that  evening  for  Southampton, 
and  then  I  went  west  to  Bristol ;  after  that  to 
Chetwynde.  I  staid  at  Chetwynde  till  I  got 
your  note." 

"  Did  you  not  see  any  thing  in  any  of  the  pa- 
pers which  might  lead  to  the  suspicion  that  you 
were  sought  after,  or  that  any  thing  was  being 
done?" 

"  No,  nothing  whatever." 

"  If  any  thing  is  going  on,  then,  it  must  be  in 
secret." 

"Yes ;  and  then,  you  know,  in  a  country  like 
England  it  is  impossible  for  the  police  to  work  so 
comprehensively  or  so  efficiently  as  they  do  on 
the  Continent — in  France,  for  instance." 

"  I  wonder  if  the  French  police  are  at  work?" 

"How  could  they  be?" 

"1  hardly  know,  unless  Black  Bill  has  really 
informed  the  London  police,  and  they  have  com- 
municated to  the  authorities  in  France.  Of 
course  it  all  depends  on  him.  The  others  can 
have  done  nothing.  He  alone  is  the  man  from 
whom  any  danger  could  possibly  arise.  His 
steady  perseverance  has  a  dangerous  look,  and 
it  is  difficult  to  tell  what  may  come  of  it  yet." 

After  some  further  conversation  Hilda  pro- 
ceeded to  give  Guttltier  a  general  idea  of  the 
circumstances  which  had  taken  place  since  they 
parted  at  Lausanne.  Her  account  was  brinf  and 
meagre,  since  she  did  not  wish  to  say  more  than 
was  absolutely  necessary.  From  what  she  said 
Gualtier  gathered  this,  however — that  Lord  Chet- 
wynde had  continued  to  be  indifferent  to  Hilda, 
and  he  conjectured  that  his  indifference  had  grown 
into  something  like  hostility.  He  learned,  more- 
over, most  plainly  that  Hilda  suspected  him  of 
an  intrigue  with  another  woman,  of  whom  she 
was  bitterly  jealous,  and  it  was  on  this  rival 
whom  she  hated  that  she  desired  that  venge- 
ance for  which  she  had  summoned  him.  This 
much  he  heard  with  nothing  but  gratification, 
since  he  looked  upon  her  jealousy  as  the  be- 
ginning of  hate ;  and  the  vengeance  which  she 
once  more  desired  could  hardly  be  thwarted  a 
second  time. 

When  she  came  to  describe  the  affiair  of  the 
masquerade,  however,  her  tone  changed,  and  she 
became  much  more  explicit.  She  went  into  all 
the  details  of  that  adventure  with  the  utmost 
minuteness,  describing  all  the  particulars  of 
every  scene,  the  dresses  which  were  worn  both 
by  Lord  Chetwynde  and  herself,  and  the  general 


appearance  of  the  grounds.  On  these  she  linger- 
ed long,  descril)ing  little  incidents  in  her  search, 
as  though  unwilling  to  come  to  the  denouement. 
When  she  reached  this  point  of  her  story  she  be- 
came deeply  agitated,  and  as  she  described  the 
memorable  events  of  that  meeting  with  the  fear- 
ful figure  of  the  dead  the  honor  that  filled  her 
soul  was  manifest  in  her  looks  and  in  her  words, 
and  communicated  itself  to  Gualtier  so  strongly 
that  an  involuntary  shudder  passed  through  him'. 

Afler  she  had  ended  he  was  silent  for  a  long 
time. 

"  You  do  not  say  any  thing?"  said  she. 

"  I  hardly  know  what  to  say  on  the  instant," 
was  the  reply. 

"But  are  you  not  yourself  overawed  when 
you  think  of  my  attempt  at  vengeance  being 
foiled  in  so  terrible  a  manner?  What  would  you 
think  if  yours  were  to  be  baffled  in  the  same 
way?  What  would  you  say,  what  would  you 
do,  if  there  should  come  to  you  this  awful  phan- 
tom ?  Oh,  my  God !"  she  cried,  with  a  groan 
of  horror,  "  shall  I  ever  forget  the  agony  of  that 
moment  when  that  shape  stood  Ijcfore  me,  and 
all  life  seemed  on  the  instant  to  die  out  into 
nothingness!" 

Gualtier  was  silent  for  a  long  time,  and  pro- 
foundly thoughtful. 

"What  are  you  thinking  about?"  asked  Hil- 
da at  last,  with  some  impatience. 

"I  am  thinking  that  this  event  may  be  ac- 
counted for  on  natural  grounds,"  said  he. 

"  No,"  said  Hilda,  warmly ;  "  nothing  in  na- 
ture can  account  for  it.  When  the  dead  come 
back  to  life,  reason  falters." 

She  shuddered  as  she  spoke. 

"  Yes,  my  lady,"  said  Guahier,  "  but  the  dead 
do  not  come  back  to  life.  You  have  seen  an  ap- 
parition, I  doubt  not ;  but  that  is  a  very  different 
thing  from  the  actual  manifestation  of  the  dead. 
What  you  saw  was  but  the  emanation  of  your 
own  brain.  It  was  your  own  fancies  which  thus 
became  visible,  and  the  image  which  became 
apparent  to  your  eye  was  precisely  the  same  as 
those  which  come  in  delirium.  A  glass  of 
brandy  or  so  may  serve  to  bring  up  before  the 
eyes  a  thousand  abhorrent  spectres.  You  have 
been  ill,  you  have  been  excited,  you  have  been 
taking  drugs ;  add  to  this  that  on  that  occa- 
sion you  were  in  a  state  of  almost  frenzy,  and 
you  can  at  once  account  for  the  whole  thing 
on  the  grounds  of  a  stimulated  imagination  and 
weak  or  diseased  optic  ner\'es.  I  can  bring  for- 
ward from  various  treatises  on  the  optic  nerves 
hundreds  of  (lases  as  singular  as  yours,  and  ap- 
parently as  unaccountable.  Indeed,  if  I  find  that 
this  matter  continues  to  affect  you  so  deeply," 
he  continued,  with  a  faint  .smile,  "my  first  duty 
will  be  to  read  up  exclusively  on  the  subject," 
and  have  a  number  of  books  sent  here  to  you, 
so  as  to  let  you  see  and  judge  for  yourself." 


i     .\ 


■  <i^? 


CHAPTER  LXVn. 


A  SHOCK. 


GuAtTiER  made  still  further  explanations  on 
this  point,  and  mentioned  several  special  cases  of 
apparitions  and  phantom  illusions  of  which  he 
had  read.  He  showed  how  in  the  liyes  of  many 
great  men  such  things  had  taken  place.     The 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


Ml 


on 
of 
he 


caso  of  Bnitua  was  one,  that  of  Constantino  an- 
other. Mohammed,  he  maintained,  oaw  real 
apparitionH  of  this  sort,  and  was  thus  prepared, 
as  he  tho»>?lit,  for  the  prophetic  office.  The 
nnchoritCH  and  aaintB  of  the  Middle  Ages  liad 
the  Hame  ex|>erience.  Jeanne  d'Arc  waa  a  moHt 
conspicuous  instance.  Above  all  these  stood 
forth  two  men  of  a  later  day,  tlie  representatives 
of  two  opposite  principles,  of  two  systems  which 
were  in  eternal  antagonism,  yet  these  two  were 
alike  in  their  intense  natures,  their  vivid  imag- 
inations, and  the  force  of  tleir  phantom  illu- 
sions. Luther  threw  his  ink-bottle  at  tJic  head 
of  the  devil,  and  Loyola  had  many  a  midnight 
struggle  with  the  same  grim  personage. 

To  all  this  Hilda  listened  attentively,  under- 
standing fully  his  theory,  and  fully  appreciating 
the  exnm])les  which  he  cited  in  order  to  illus- 
trate that  tlieoi-y,  whether  the  examples  were 
those  well-known  ones  which  belong  to  general 
history,  or  special  instances  which  had  come 
under  his  own  personal  observation.  Yet  all 
his  arguments  and  examples  failed  to  have  any 
eflect  upon  her  whatever.  After  all  there  re- 
mained fixed  in  her  mind,  and  immovable,  the 
idea  that  she  hud  seen  tiie  dead,  and  in  very 
deed ;  and  that  Zillah  herself  had  risen  up  be- 
fore her  eyes  to  confound  her  at  the  moment  of 
tiie  execution  of  her  vengeance.  Such  a  con- 
viction was  too'  strong  to  be  removed  by  any  ar- 
guments or  illustrations.  That  conviction,  more- 
over, had  been  deepened  and  intensified  by  the 
horror  which  had  followed  when  she  had  fled  in 
mad  fear,  feeling  herself  pursued  by  that  ab- 
horrent shape,  till  she  had  fallen  senseless.  No- 
tiiing  of  this  could  be  argued  away.  Nor  did 
she  choose  to  argue  about  it.  While  she  list- 
ened carefully  and  attentively  to  Gualtier's  words, 
she  scarcely  attempted  any  rejoinder,  but  con- 
tented herself  with  a  quiet  reiteration  of  her  for- 
mer belief. 

So  this  was  dismissed.  One  thing  remained, 
however,  and  that  was  the  conclusion  that  Lord 
Chetwynde  was  carrying  on  a  desperate  intrigue 
with  some  English  married  lady,  though  whether 
the  husband  of  this  lady  was  himself  English  or 
Italian  could  not  be  told.  It  was  evident  that  Lord 
Chetwynde's  case  was  not  that  of  the  convention- 
al cicisbeo.  There  was  too  much  desperation  in 
his  love.  This  explained  the  course  which  would 
be  easiest  to  them.  To  track  Lord  Chetwynde, 
and  find  out  who  this  woman  was,  should  be  the 
first  thing.  On  learning  this  he  was  to  leave 
the  rest  to  Hilda.  Hilda's  work  of  vengeance 
would  begin  with  a  revelation  of  the  whole  case 
to  the  supposed  husband,  anil  after  this  they 
could  be  guided  by  circumstances. 

With  such  an  imderstanding  as  this  Gualtier 
withdrew  to  begin  his  work  at  once.  Lord 
Chetwynde's  visits  to  the  villa  continued  as  be- 
fore, and  under  the  same  highly  romantic  cir- 
cumstances. Going  to  India  seemed  removed 
from  his  thoughts  further  and  further  every  day. 
He  did  not  feel  capable  of  rousing  himself  to 
such  an  effort.  As  long  as  he  had  the  presence 
and  the  society  of  "Miss  Lorton,"  so  long  he 
would  stay,  and  as  there  was  no  immediate 
prospect  of  Obed  Chute's  leaving  Florence,  he 
had  dismissed  all  ideas  of  any  very  immediate 
departure  on  his  part.  As  for  Zillah  she  soon 
recovered  her  health  and  spirits,  and  ceased  to 
think  rbout  the  fearful  figure  in  the  summer- 


house  of  the  ffite  champitre.  Lord  Chetwynde 
also  resumed  that  strong  control  over  himself 
which  he  had  formerly  maintained,  and  guard- 
ed very  carefully  against  any  now  outbreak  like 
that  of  the  Villa  Ilinalci.  Yet  though  he  could 
control  his  acts,  he  could  not  control  his  looks ; 
and  there  were  times  in  these  sweet,  stolen  inter- 
views of  theirs  when  his  eyes  would  rest  on  her 
with  an  expression  which  told  more  plainly  than 
words  the  story  of  his  all-absorbing  love  and 
tenderness. 

But  while  Lord  Chetwynde  was  thus  continu- 
ing his  secret  visits,  there  was  one  on  his  track 
whom  he  little  susijccted.  Looking  upon  his 
late  valet  as  a  vulgar  villain,  whom  his  own  care- 
lessness had  allowed  to  get  into  his  employ,  he 
had  let  him  go,  and  had  never  made  any  eflort 
to  follow  him  or  punish  him.  As  for  Hilda,  if 
he  ever  gave  her  a  thought,  it  was  one  of  vexa- 
tion at  finding  her  so  fond  of  him  that  she  would 
still  stay  with  him  rather  than  leave.  "Why 
can't  she  go  quietly  back  to  Chetwyjide?"  he 
thought;  and  then  his  more  generous  nature  in- 
terposed to  quell  the  thought.  He  could  not  for- 
get her  devotion  in  saving  his  life ;  though  there 
were  times  when  he  felt  that  the  prolongation  of 
that  life  was  not  a  thing  to  be  thankful  for. 

As  for  the  family,  every  thing  went  on  pleas- 
antly and  smoothly.  Obed  was  always  delighted 
to  see  Windham,  and  would  have  felt  disappoint- 
ed if  he  had  missed  coming  every  alternate  day. 
Miss  Chute  shared  her  brother's  appreciation  of 
the  visitor.  Zillah  herself  showed  no  signs  which 
they  were  able  to  perceive  of  the  depth  of  her 
feelings.  Filled,  as  she  was,  with  one  strong 
passion,  it  did  not  interfere  with  the  performance 
of  her  duties ;  nor,  if  it  had  done  so,  would  her 
friends  have  noticed  it.  She  had  the  morning 
hours  for  the  children,  and  the  afternoon  for 
Lord  Chetwynde.  • 

In  setting  about  this  new  task  Gualtier  felt  the 
need  of  caution.  It  was  far  more  perilous  than 
any  which  he  had  yet  undertaken.  Once  he  re- 
lied upon  Lord  Chetwynde's  ignorance  of  his  face, 
or  his  contemptuous  indifference  to  his  existence. 
On  the  strength  of  this  he  had  been  able  to  come 
to  him  undiscovered  and  to  obtain  employment. 
But  now  all  was  changed.  Lord  Chetwynde 
was  keen  and  observant.  When  he  had  once 
chosen  to  take  notice  of  a  face  he  would  not 
readily  forget  it ;  and  to  venture  into  his  pres- 
ence now  would  be  to  insure  discovery.  To 
guard  against  that  was  his  first  aim,  and  so  he 
determined  to  adopt  some  sort  of  a  disguii^e. 
Even  with  a  disguise  he  saw  that  it  would  bo 
perilous  to  let  Lord  Chetwynde  see  him.  Hilda 
had  told  him  enough  to  make  known  to  him 
that  his  late  master  was  fully  conscious  now  of 
the  cause  of  his  disease,  and  suspected  his  valet . 
only,  so  that  the  watch  of  the  pursuer  must  now 
he  maintained  without  his  ever  exposing  himself 
to  the  view  of  this  man. 

After  a  long  and  careful  deliberation  he  chose 
for  a  disguise  the  costume  of  a  Tuscan  peasant. 
i  Although  he  had  once  told  Hilda  that  he  never 
'  adopted  any  disguises  but  such  as  were  suited  to 
j  his  character,  yet  on  this  occasion  his  judgment 
was  certainly  at  fault,  since  such  a  disguise  was 
not  the  one  most  appropriate  to  a  man  of  his  ap- 
pearance and  nature.     His  figure  had  none  of 
the  litheness  and  grace  of  movement  which  is  sq 
common  among  that  class,  and  his  sallow  skin 


222 


THE  ORYITOORAM. 


.  « 

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K^^Sasrr  rsiv.tj' ..sr;*- -5?^^==*; -  fe&ff?^ 

-^siF_,i  ^ 

'HK   FOLLOWED   WATCHFULLY   AND   STKALTHILY. 


had  nothing  in  common  with  the  rich  olive  com- 
plexion of  the  Tuscan  fiice.  But  it  is  just  possi- 
l)le  thftt  Gimltier  may  have  had  some  little  per- 
sonal vanity  which  blinded  him  to  his  shortcom- 
ings in  this  respect.  The  pallor  of  his  face  was, 
however,  to  some  extent  cori-ected  by  a  red  ker- 
chief which  he  hound  around  his  head,  and  the 
etfect  of  tliis  was  increased  by  a  dark  wig  and 
mustache.  Trusting  to  this  disguise,  he  pre- 
)iared  for  his  undertaking. 

The  next  day  after  his  interview  with  Hilda 
he  obtained  a  horse,  and  waited  at  a  spot  near 
Lord  Chetwynde's  lodgings,  wearing  a  volumin- 
ous cloak,  one  corner  of  which  was  flung  over  his 
left  shoulder  in  the  Italian  fashion.  A  horse 
was  brought  up  to  the  door  of  the  hotel ;  Lord 
Chetwynde  came  out,  mounted  him,  and  rode  off. 
Gualtier  followed  at  a  respectful  distance,  and 
kept  up  his  watch  for  about  ten  miles.  He  was 
not  noticed  at  all.  At  length  he  sawliord  Chet- 
wynde ride  into  the  gateway  of  a  villa  and  dis- 
appear. Ho  did  not  care  about  following  any 
further,  and  was  very  well  satisfied  with  having 
found  out  this  much  so  easily. 

Leaving  his  horse  in  a  safe  place,  Gualtier 
then  posted  himself  amidst  a  clump  of  trees,  and 
kept  up  his  watch  for  hours.    He  had  to  wait 


almost  until  midnight ;  then,  at  last,  his  patience 
was  rewarded.  It  was  about  half  past  eleven 
when  he  saw  Lord  Chetwynde  come  out  and 
pass  down  the  road.  He  himself  followed,  but 
did  not  go  back  to  town.  He  found  an  inn  on 
the  road,  and  put  up  here  for  the  night. 

On  the  following  day  he  passed  the  morning 
in  strolling  along  the  road,  and  had  sufficient  ac- 
quaintance with  Italian  to  inquire  from  the  peo- 
ple about  the  villa  where  Lord  Chetwynde  hod 
gone.  He  learned  that  it  belonged  to  a  rich 
Milor  Ingle^e,  whose  name  no  one  knew,  but 
who  was  quite  popular  with  the  neighboring 
peasantry.  They  spoke  of  ladies  in  tlie  villa; 
one  old  one,  and  another  who  was  young  and 
very  beautiful.  Thei'e  were  also  children.  Ail 
this  was  vei-y  gratifying  to  Gualtier,  who,  in  his 
own  mind,  at  once  settled  the  relationship  of  all 
these.  The  old  woman  was  the  mother,  he 
thought,  or  perhaps  the  sister  of  the  Milor  In- 
glese;  the  young  lady  was  his  wife,  and  they  had 
children.  He  learned  that  the  Milor  Ingleee 
was  over  fifty  j'ears  old,  and  the  children  were 
ten  and  twelve ;  a  circumstance  which  seemed  to 
show  that  the  younger  lady  must  at  least  be  thir- 
ty. He  would  have  liked  to  ask  more,  but  was 
afraid  to  be  too  inquisitive,  for  fear  of  exciting 


iMi^Ljiai 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


228 


ning 
t  nc- 

JICO- 

had 
rich 
but 
loring 
villa ; 
and 
All 
in  his 
of  all 
he 
jr  In- 
!y  had 
glepe 
were 
ed  to 
e  thir- 
it  was 
citing 


Huspicinn.  On  the  whole,  he  wn*  very  well  satii- 
Hed  with  the  information  wliicli  he  had  gained; 
yet  there  otill  remained  far  more  to  l>o  done,  and 
there  waH  the  nereHHity  of  voiitiniied  watching  in 
person.  To  this  necuMHity  ho  devoted  himHolf 
with  imtiring  and  zealous  patience. 

For  Hcv(M'al  dayH  longer  he  watched  thuH,  and 
learned  that  on  alternate  days  Lord  Chetwyndo 
wiM  accustomed  to  ride  in  at  the  chief  gate, 
while  on  tiie  other  days  he  would  leave  his  horse 
hnhind  and  walk  in  at  a  little  private  gate  at  the 
nearer  end  of  the  park,  and  some  considerable 
distance  from  the  nniin  entrance.  This  at  once 
excited  his  strongest  suspicions,  and  his  imagin- 
ation suggested  many  different  motives  for  bo 
very  clandostino  yet  so  very  methodical  a  sys- 
tem of  visiting.  Of  course  ho  thought  that  it 
had  reference  to  a  lady,  and  to  nothing  else. 
Then  the  ijuestion  arose  once  more — what  to  do. 
It  was  dillicult  to  tell ;  but  at  length  his  decision 
was  made.  Ho  saw  that  the  only  way  to  get  at 
the  bottom  of  this  mystery  would  be  to  enter  the 
grounds  and  follow  Lord  CHetwynde.  Sucli  an 
enterprise  was  manifestly  full  of  danger,  but 
there  wag  positively  no  help  for  it.  He  could 
not  think  of  going  back  to  Hilda  until  he  had 
gained  some  definite  and  important  information ; 
and  all  that  he  had  thus  far  discovered,  though 
very  useful  as  far  as  it  went,  was  still  nothing 
more  than  preliminary.  The  mystery  bad  not 
yet  been  solved.  He  had  only  arrived  at  the 
beginning  of  it.  The  thought  of  this  necessity, 
which  was  laid  upon  him,  determined  him  to 
make  the  bold  resolution  of  running  all  risks, 
and  of  tracking  Lord  Chetwynde  through  the 
smaller  gate. 

So  on  one  of  those  days  when  he  supposed 
that  Lord  Chetwynde  would  be  coming  there 
he  entered  the  little  gate  and  concealed  himself 
in  the  woods,  in  a  place  from  which  he  could  see 
any  one  who  might  enter  while  he  himvelf  would 
be  free  from  observation. 

He  was  right  in  his  conjectures.  In  about 
half  an  hour  the  man  whom  ho  was  expecting 
came  along,  and  entering  the  gate,  passed  close 
beside  him.  (iualtier  waited  for  a  time,  so  as  to 
put  a  respactfid  distance  between  himself  and 
the  other.  Then  he  followed  watchfidly  and 
stealthily,  keeping  always  at  the  same  distance 
behind.  For  a  hundred  yards  or  so  the  path 
wound  on  so  tliat  it  was  quite  easy  to  follow 
without  being  perceived.  The  path  was  broad, 
smooth,  well-kept,  with  dark  trees  overhanging, 
and  thus  shrouding  it  in  gloom.  At  last  Lord 
Chetwynde  suddenly  turned  to  the  left  into  a 
narrow,  rough  pathway  that  scarce  deserved 
the  name,  for  it  was  little  better  than  a  track. 
Gualtier  followed.  This  path  wound  so  much, 
and  put  so  many  intervening  obstacles  between 
him  and  the  other,  that  he  was  forced  to  hurry 
up  so  as  to  keep  nearer.  In  doing  so  he  stepped 
suddenly  on  a  twig  which  lay  across  the  track. 
It  broke  with  a  loud  snap.  At  that  moment 
Lord  Chetwynde  was  but  a  few  yards  away. 
He  turned,  and  just  as  Gualtier  had  poised  him- 
self so  as  to  dart  back,  he  caught  the  eyes  of 
his  enemy  fixed  upon  him.  There  was  no  time 
to  wait.  The  danger  of  discovery  was  too  great. 
In  an  instant  he  plunged  into  the  thick,  dense 
underbrush,  and  ran  for  a  long  distance  in  a 
winding  direction.  At  first  he  heard  Lord  Chet- 
wynde's  voice  shouting  to  him  to  stop,  then  steps 


as  if  in  pursuit ;  hut  Anally  the  sounds  of  pursuit 
ceased,  ar  .  Gualtier,  discovering  this,  stoppecl 
to  rest.  The  fact  of  the  cose  was,  that  I^rd 
Chetwynde'*  engagement  was  of  too  great  im- 
portance to  allow  him  to  be  diverted  from  it — to 
run  the  risk  of  being  late  at  the  tryst  for  the  sake 
of  any  vagabond  who  might  be  strolling  about. 
He  had  made  but  a  short  chase,  and  then  turned 
back  for  a  Iwtter  purpose. 

(jualtier,  while  he  rested,  soon  discovered  that 
he  had  not  the  remotest  idea  of  his  position. 
Ho  was  in  the  niiddle  of  a  dense  forest.  The 
underbrush  was  thick.  He  could  see  nothing 
which  might  give  him  any  clew  to  his  where- 
abouts. After  again  assuring  himself  that  all 
was  quiet,  he  began  to  move,  trying  to  do  so  in 
as  straight  a  line  as  possible,  and  thinking  that 
he  must  certainly  come  out  somewhere. 

lie  was  quite  right;  for  after  about  half  an 
hour's  rough  and  ditticult  journeying  he  came  to 
a  pa»h.  Whether  to  turn  up  or  down,  to  the  right 
or  the  left,  was  a  question  which  required  some 
time  to  decide ;  but  at  length  he  turned  to  the 
right,  and  walked  onward.  Along  this  he  wontfcr 
nearly  a  mile.  It  then  grew  wider,  and  finally 
became  a  broad  way  with  thick,  well-cut  hedges 
on  either  side.  It  seemed  to  him  that  he  wan 
a|)proaching  the  central  part  of  these  extensive 
grounds,  and  perhaps  the  house  itself  This 
belief  was  onfirnied  soon  by  the  appearance  of 
a  number  ot  statues  and  vases  which  ornamented 
the  pathway.  The  fear  of  approaching  the 
house  and  of  being  seen  made  him  hesitate  for 
some  time;  yet  bis  curiosity  was  strong,  and 
his  eagerness  to  investigate  irrepressihie.  He 
felt  that  this  opportunity  was  too  good  a  one  to 
lose,  and  so  he  walked  on  rapidly  yet  watchfuU 
ly.  At  length  the  path  made  a  sudden  sweep, 
and  he  saw  a  sight  before  him  which  arrested 
his  steps.  He  saw  a  broad  avenue,  into  which 
his  path  led  not  many  paces  before  him.  And 
at  no  great  distance  off,  toward  the  right,  ap- 
peared the  top  of  the  villa  emerging  from  among 
trees.  Yet  these  things  did  not  attract  his  at- 
tention, which  centered  itself  wholly  on  a  man 
whom  he  saw  in  the  avenue. 

This  man  was  tall,  broad-shouldered,  with 
rugged  features  and  wide,  square  brow.  He 
wore  a  dress-coat  and  a  broad-brimmed  hat  of 
Tuscan  straw.  In  an  instant,  and  with  a  sur- 
prise that  was  only  equaled  by  his  fear,  Gual- 
tier recognized  the  form  and  features  of  Obed 
Chute,  which  had,  in  one  interview  in  New  York, 
been  very  vividly  impressed  on  his  memory. 
Almost  at  the  same  time  Obed  happened  to  see 
him,  so  that  retreat  was  impossible.  He  looked 
at  him  carelessly  and  then  turned  away ;  but  a 
sudden  thought  seemed  to  strike  him ;  be  turned 
once  more,  regarded  the  intruder  intently,  and 
then  walked  straight  up  to  him. 


CHAPTER  LXVIII. 

TUB   VISION   OF  THE   DEAD. 

Gualtier  stood  rooted  to  the  spot,  astounded 
at  such  a  discovery.  His  first  impulse  was  flight. 
But  that  was  impossible.  The  hedgeway  on 
either  side  was  high  and  thick,  preventing  any 
escape.  The  flight  would  have  to  be  made  along 
the  open  path,  and  in  a  chase  he  did  not  feel  con- 


'  r-^'^;.T»'i   x^T*--.' 


■,'7vT|        w^' ' 


224 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


!>) 


i 


fident  that  he  could  escape.  Besides,  he  felt 
more  like  relying  on  his  own  resources.  He  had 
a  hope  that  liis  disf^uise  might  conceal  him.  Oth- 
er thoughts  also  jiusscd  through  his  mind  at  that 
moment.  How  did  this  Obed  Chute  come  here  ? 
Was  he  the  Milor  Inglese?  How  did  he  come 
into  connection  with  Lord  Chetwynde,  of  all  oth- 
ers ?  Were  they  working  together  on  some  dark 
plot  against  Hilda?  That  seemed  the  most  nat- 
ural thing  to  believe. 

But  he  had  no  time  for  thought,  for  even  while 
these  were  passing  through  his  mind  Obed  was 
advancing  toward  him,  until  finally  he  stood  be- 
fore him,  confronting  him  with  a  dark  frown. 
Tiiere  was  something  in  his  face  which  showed 
Gualtier  tiiat  he  was  recognized. 

"You!"  cried  Obed;  "you!  I  thought  so, 
and  it  is  so,  by  the  Lord !  I  never  forget  a  face. 
You  scoundrel !  what  do  you  want  ?  What  are 
you  doing  here?  What  are  you  following  me 
for  ?  Are  you  on  that  business  again  ?  Didn't 
I  give  you  warning  in  Kew  York  ?" 

There  was  something  so  menacing  in  his  look, 
and  in  his  wrathful  frown,  that  Gualtier  started 
back  a  j)ace,  and  put  his  hand  to  his  breast-pock- 
et to  seize  his  revolver. 

"No  you  don't!"  exclaimed  Obed,  and  quick 
as  lightning  he  seized  Gualtier's  hand,  while  he 
held  bis  clenclicd  fist  in  his  face. 

"I'm  up  to  all  those  tricks,"  he  continued, 
"  and  you  can't  come  it  over  me,  you  scoundrel ! 
Here — off  with  all  that  trasli." 

And  knocking  oflF  Gualtier's  hat,  as  he  held  his 
hand  in  a  giasp  from  which  the  unhappy  prison- 
er could  not  release  himself,  he  tore  off  his  wig 
aud  his  mustache. 

(iualtier  was  not  exactly  a  coward,  for  he  had 
done  things  wliich  required  great  boldness  and 
presence  of  mind,  and  Obed  himself  had  said  this 
much  in  hio  criticisms  upon  Black  Bill's  story ; 
but  at  the  present  moment  there  was  something 
in  the  tremendous  figure  of  Obed,  and  also  in  the 
fear  which  he  had  that  all  was  disco\ered,  which 
made  him  cower  into  nothingne.ss  before  his  an- 
tagonist.    Yet  he  said  not  a  word. 

"And  now,"  said  Obed,  grimly,  "perhaps 
you'll  have  the  kindness  to  inform  me  what  you 
lire  doing  here — yon,  of  all  men  in  tiie  world — 
dodging  about  in  disguise,  and  tracking  my  foot- 
steps. What  the  devil  do  you  mean  by  sneak- 
ing after  me  again  ?  You  saw  me  once,  and  that 
ought  to  have  been  enough.  What  do  you  want  ? 
Is  it  something  more  about  General  Pomeroy  ? 
And  what  do  you  mean  by  trying  to  draw  a  pis- 
tol on  me  on  my  own  premises?  Tell  me  the 
truth,  you  mean,  sallow-faced  rascal,  or  I'll  shake 
the  bones  out  of  your  body  !" 

In  an  oidinnry  case  of  sudden  seizure  Gual- 
tier might  have  contrived  to  get  out  of  the  diffi- 
culty by  his  cunning  and  presence  of  mind.  But 
tills  was  by  no  means  an  ordinary  case.  This 
giant  wlio  thus  seemed  to  come  down  upon  him 
as  suddenly  as  though  he  had  dropped  from  the 
skies,  and  who  thundered  forth  these  fierce,  im- 
perative questions  in  his  ear,  did  not  allow  him 
much  space  in  which  to  collect  his  thoughts,  or 
time  to  put  them  into  execution.  There  began 
to  come  over  him  a  terror  of  this  man,  whom  he 
fancied  to  be  intimately  acquainted  with  his 
whole  career.  "Thus  conscience  does  make 
cowards  of  us  all,"  and  Gualtier,  who  was  gen- 
erally not  a  coward,  felt  very  much  like  one  on 


this  occasion.  Morally,  as  well  as  physically, 
he  felt  himself  crushed  by  his  opponent.  It  was, 
therefore,  with  utter  helplessness,  and  the  loss  of 
all  his  usual  strength  of  mind  and  self-control, 
that  he  stammered  forth  his  answer : 

"I — I  came  here — to — to  get  some  informa- 
tion." 

"  You  came  to  get  information,  did  you?  Of 
course  you  did.     Spies  generally  do. " 

"I  came  to  see  you." 

"To  see  me,  hey  ?  Then  why  didn't  you  come 
like  a  man?  What's  the  meaning  of  this  dis- 
guise?" 

"  Because  you  refused  information  once,  and  I 
thought  that  if  I  came  in  another  character,  with 
a  ditterent  story,  1  might  have  a  better  chance." 

"  Pooh !  don't  I  see  that  you're  lying  ?  Why 
didn't  you  come  up  through  the  avenue  like  a 
man,  instead  of  snea.king  along  the  paths?  An- 
swer me  that. " 

"  I  wasn't  sneaking.  I  was  merely  taking  a 
little  stroll  in  your  beautiful  grounds." 

"Wasn't  sneaking?"  repeated  Obed ;  "then 
I'd  like  very  much  to  know  what  sneaking  is,  for 
my  own  private  information.  If  any  man  ever 
looked  like  a  sneak,  yoi^  did  when  I  first  caught 
your  eye." 

"  I  wasn't  sneaking,"  reiterated  Gualtier ;  "  I 
was  simply  strolling  about.  I  found  a  gate  at 
the  lower  end  of  the  park,  and  walked  up  quietly. 
I  was  anxious  to  see  yiu." 

"Anxious  to  see  mt'?"  said  Obed,  with  a  pe- 
culiar intonation. 

"Yes." 

"  Why,  then,  did  you  look  scared  out  of  your 
life  when  you  did  see  nie?    Answer  me  that." 

"My  answer  is,"  sad  Gualtier,  with  an  effort 
at  calmness,  "  that  I  neither  looked  scared  nor 
felt  scared.  I  dare  say  I  may  have  put  myself 
on  my  guard,  whep  you  rushed  at  me." 

"I  didn't  rush  at  you." 

"It  seemed  to  me  so,  and  I  fell  back  a  step, 
and  prepared  for  the  shock." 

"Pell  back  a  step!"  sneered  Obed;  "you 
looked  around  to  see  if  you  had  any  ghost  of  a 
chance  to  run  for  it,  and  saw  you  had  none. 
That's  about  it." 

"  You  are  very  much  mistaken,"  said  Gualtier. 

"Young  man,"  replied  Obed,  severely,  "I'm 
neve\'  mistaken  !     So  dry  up." 

"Well,  since  I've  found  you,"  said  Gualtier, 
"  will  you  allow  me  to  ask  you  a  question  ?" 

"What's  that? — you  found  mef  Why,  you 
villain !  /  found  you.  You  are  a  cool  case,  too. 
Answer  you  a  qisestion  ?  Not  a  bit  of  it.  But 
I'll  tell  you  what  I  will  do.  I  intend  to  teach 
you  a  lesson  that  you  won't  forget." 

"Beware,"  said  Gualtier,  understanding  the 
other's  threat — "beware  how  you  offer  violence 
to  me." 

"  Oh,  don't  trouble  yourself  at  all.  T  intend 
to  beware.  My  first  idea  was  to  kick  you  all 
the  way  out ;  but  you're  such  a  poor,  pale,  piti- 
ful concern  that  I'll  be  satisfied  with  only  one 
parting  kick.     So  off  with  you!" 

At  this  Obed  released  his  grasp,  and  keeping 
Gualtier  before  him  he  forced  him  along  the 
avenue  toward  the  gate. 

"  You  needn't  look  round,"  said  Obed,  grim- 
ly, as  he  noticed  a  furtive  glance  of  (jiialtidr's. 
"And  you  needn't  try  to  get  at  your  revolver. 
'Tain't  any  manner  of  use,  for  I've  got  one,  and 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


a» 


,  you 

too. 
But 
each 

the 

lence 

itend 

u  nil 

yiiti- 

one 


tho 


idr's, 

)lver. 

aiid 


can  use  it  Letter  than  you,  being  an  American 
born.  You  needn't  try  to  walk  faster  either," 
he  continued,  "  for  you  can't  escape.  I  can  run 
faster  than  you,  my  legs  being  longer.  You 
don't  know  the  grounds,  either,  half  so  well  as 
I  do,  although  I  dare  say  you've  been  sneaking 
about  here  ever  since  I  came.  But  let  me  tell 
you  this,  my  friend,  for  your  information.  You 
can't  come  it  over  me,  nohow ;  for  I'm  a  free 
American,  and  I  always  carry  a  revolver.  Take 
warning  by  that  one  fact,  and  bear  this  in  mind 
too — that  if  I  ever  see  your  villainous  face  about 
here  again,  or  if  I  find  you  prowling  about  after 
me  any  where,  I  swear  I'll  blow  your  bloody 
brains  out  as  sure  as  my  name's  (Jbed  Chute. 
I'll  do  it.     I  will,  by  the  Eternal !" 

With  such  cheerful  remarks  as  these  Obed 
entertained  his  companion,  or  prisoner,  which- 
ever he  was,  until  they  reached  the  gate.     The  1 
porter  opened  it  for  them,  and  Gualtier  made , 
a  wild  bound  forward.     But  he  was  not  quick 
enough ;  for  Obed,  true  to  his  promise,  was  in-  | 
tent  on  giving  him  that  last  kick  of  which  he 
had  spoken.     He  saw  Gualtiet's  start,  and  he 
himself  sprang   after   him  with   fearful   foi  :e. 
Coming  up  to  him,  he  administered  to  him  one 
single  blow  with  his  foot,  so  tremendous  that  it 
was  like  the  stroke  of  a  catapult,  and  sent  the 
unhap])y  wretch  headlong  to  the  ground. 

After  doing  this  Obed  calmly  went  back,  and 
thought  for  some  time  on  this  singular  adven- 
ture. He  had  his  own  ideas  as  to  the  pertinac- 
ity of  this  man,  and  attributed  it  to  some  desire 
on  his  part  to  investigate  the  old  affair  of  the 
C;hetwynde  elopement.  What  his  particular  ])er- 
sonal  interest  might  be  he  could  not  tell,  nor  did 
he  care  much.  In  fact,  at  this  time  the  ques- 
tion of  his  visitor's  motives  hardly  occupied  his 
mind  at  all,  so  greatly  were  his  thoughts  occu- 
pied with  pleasurable  reminiscences  of  his  own 
parting  salute. 

As  for  Gualtier,  it  was  different ;  and  if  his 
thoughts  were  also  on  that  parting  salute,  it  was 
for  some  time.  The  blow  had  been  a  terrible 
one ;  and  as  he  staggered  to  his  feet  he  found 
that  he  could  not  walk  without  difficulty.  He 
dragged  himself  along,  overcome  by  pain  and 
bitter  mortification,  curbing  at  every  step  Obed 
Chute  and  all  belonging  to  him,  and  thus  slowly 
and  sullenly  went  down  the  road.  But  the  blow 
of  the  catapult  had  been  too  "evere  to  admit  of 
an  easy  recovery.  Every  step  was  misery  and 
pain  ;  and  so,  in  spite  of  himself,ihe  was  forced 
to  stop.  But  he  dared  not  rest  in  any  place 
along  the  rond-'jide ;  for  the  terror  of  Obed  Chute 
was  still  strong  upon  him,  and  he  did  not  know 
but  that  this  monster  might  still  take  it  into  his 
head  to  pursue  him,  so  as  to  exact  a  larger  venge- 
ance. So  he  clambered  up  a  bank  on  the  road- 
side, where  some  trees  were,  and  among  these 
he  lay  down,  concealing  himself  from  view. 

Pain  and  terror  and  dark  apprehensions  of 
further  danger  affected  his  brain.  Concealed 
among  these  trees,  he  lay  motionless,  hardly 
daring  to  breathe,  and  scarcely  able  to  move. 
Amidst  his  pain  there  still  came  to  him  a  vague 
wonder  at  the  presence  of  Obed  (/hiite  here  in 
such  close  friendship  with  Lord  Chetwynde. 
How  had  such  a  friendship  arisen?  How  was 
it  possible  that  these  two  had  ever  become  ac- 
•inainted?  Lord  Checwynde,  who  had  passed 
his  later  life  in  Indif,,  could  scarcely  ever  have 


heard  of  this  man  ;  and  even  if  he  had  heard 
of  this  man,  his  connection  with  the  Chetwynde 
family  had  been  of  such  a  nature  that  an  inti- 
mate friendship  like  this  was  the  last  thing  which 
might  be  expected.  Such  a  friendship,  unac- 
countable as  it  might  be,  between  these  two,  cer- 
tainly existed,  for  he  had  seen  sufficient  proofs 
of  it ;  yet  what  Lord  Clietwynde's  aims  were  lie 
could  not  tell.  It  seemed  as  though,  by  some 
singular  freak  of  fortune,  he  had  fallen  in  love 
with  Obed  Chute's  wife,  and  was  having  clan- 
destine meetings  with  her  somewhere.  If  so, 
Obed  Chute  was  the  very  man  to  whom  Hilda 
might  reveal  her  knowledge,  with  the  assurance 
that  the  most  ample  vengeance  would  be  exact- 
ed by  him  on  the  destroyer  of  his  peace  and  the 
violator  of  his  friendship. 

Amidst  his  pain,  and  in  spite  of  it,  these 
thoughts  came,  and  others  also.  He  could  not 
help  wondering  whether  in  this  clo.se  associa- 
tion of  these  two  they  had  not  some  one  com- 
mon purpose.  Was  it  possible  that  they  could 
know  any  thing  about  Hilda?  This  was  his 
first  thought;  and  nothing  could  show  more 
plainly  the  unselfish  nature  of  the  love  of  this 
base  man  than  that  at  a  time  like  this  he  should 
think  of  her  rather  than  himself.  Yet  so  it  was. 
His  thought  was.  Do  they  suspect  her  f  Has 
Lord  Chetwynde  some  dark  design  against  her, 
and  are  they  working  in  unison  ?  As  far  as  he 
could  see  there  was  no  possibility  of  any  such 
design.  Hilda's  account  of  Lord  Chetwynde's 
behavior  toward  her  showed  him  simply  a  kind 
of  tolerance  of  her,  as  though  he  deemed  her  a 
necessary  evil,  but  none  of  thtt  aversion  which 
he  would  have  shown  had  he  i'elt  the  faintest 
suspicion  of  the  truth.  That  truth  would  have 
been  too  terrific  to  have  been  borne  thus  by  any 
one.  No.  He  must  believe  that  Hilda  was  really 
his  wife,  or  he  could  not  be  able  to  treat  her 
with  that  courtesy  which  he  always  showed — 
which,  c  )Id  though  it  might  be  in  her  eyes,  was 
still  none  the  less  the  courtesy  which  a  gentle- 
man shows  to  a  lady  who  is  his  equal.  But  had 
he  suspected  the  truth  she  would  have  been  a 
criminal  of  the  basest  kind,  and  courtesy  from 
him  to  her  would  have  been  impossible.  He 
saw  plainly,  therefore,  that  the  truth  with  re- 
gard to  Hilda  could  not  be  in  any  way  even 
suspected,  and  that  thus  far  she  was  safe. 

Another  thing  showed  that  there  could  be  no 
connection  between  these  two  arising  out  of  their 
family  affairs.  Certainly  Lord  Chetwynde,  with 
his  family  pride,  was  not  the  man  who  could  ally 
himself  to  one  who  was  familiar  with  the  family 
shame;  and,  moreover,  Hilda  had  assured  him, 
from  her  own  knowledge,  that  Lord  Chetwynde 
had  never  learned  any  thing  of  that  shame.  He 
had  never  known  it  at  home,  he  could  rot  have 
found  it  out  very  easily  in  India,  and  in  what- 
ever way  he  had  become  ac({uninted  with  this 
American,  it  was  scarcely  probable  that  he  coidd 
have  found  it  out  from  him.  Obed  Chute  was 
evidently  his  friend ;  but  for  that  very  reason, 
and  from  the  very  nature  of  the  case,  he  could 
not  possibly  be  known  to  Lord  Chetwym.  j  as 
the  sole  living  contemporary  witness  of  his  mo- 
ther's dishonor.  Obed  Chute  himself  was  cer- 
tainly the  last  man  in  the  world,  as  Gualtier 
thought,  who  would  have  been  capable  of  volun- 
teering such  information  as  that.  These  con- 
clusions to  which  he  came  were  natural,  and 


226 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


were  based  on  self-evident  truths.  Yet  still  the 
question  remained :  How  was  it  that  these  two 
men,  who  more  than  all  others  were  connected 
with  those  affairs  which  most  deeply  affected 
himself  and  Hilda,  and  from  whom  he  had  the 
chief  if  not  the  only  reason  to  fear  danger, 
could  now  be  joined  in  such  intimate  friend- 
ship ?  And  this  was  a  question  which  was  un- 
answerable. 

As  Hilda's  position  seemed  safe,  he  thought 
of  his  own,  and  wondered  whether  there  could  be 
danger  to  himself  from  this.  Singularly  enough, 
on  that  eventful  day  he  had  been  seen  by  both 
Lord  Chetwynde  anil  Obed  Chute.  Lord  Chet- 
wynde,  he  believed,  could  not  have  recognized 
him,  or  he  would  not  have  given  up  the  pursuit 
so  readily.  Obed  Chute  had  not  only  recognized 
him,  but  also  captured  him,  and  not  only  cap- 
tured him,  but  very  severely  punished  him  ;  yet 
the  very  fact  that  Obed  Chute  had  suffered  him 
to  go  showed  how  complete  his  ignorance  must 
be  of  the  true  state  of  the  case.  If  he  had  but 
known  even  a  portion  of  the  truth  he  would  nev- 
er have  allowed  him  to  go ;  if  he  and  Lord  Chet- 
wynde were  really  allied  in  an  enterprise  such  as 
he  at  first  feared  when  he  discovered  that  alli- 
ance, then  he  himself  would  have  been  detained. 
True,  Obed  Chute  knew  no  more  of  him  than 
this,  that  he  had  once  made  inquiries  about  the 
Chetwynde  family  affairs ;  yet,  in  case  of  any  se- 
rious alliance  on  their  part,  this  of  itself  would 
have  been  sufficient  cause  for  his  detention.  Yet 
Obed  Chute  had  sent  him  off.  What  did  that 
show  ?  This,  above  all,  that  he  coidd  not  have 
any  great  purpose  in  connection  with  his  friend. 

Amidst  all  these  thoughts  his  sufferings  were 
extreme. ,  He  lay  there  fearful  of  ])ursuit,  yet 
unable  to  move,  distracted  by  pain  both  of  body 
and  mind,  lime  passed  on,  but  his  fears  con- 
tinued unabated.  He  was  excited  and  nervous. 
The  pain  had  brought  on  a  deep  physical  pros- 
tration, which  deprived  him  of  his  usual  self- 
possession.  Every  moment  he  expected  to  see 
a  gigantic  figure  in  a  dress-coat  and  a  broad- 
brimmed  hat  of  Tuscan  straw,  with  stern,  re- 
lentless face  and  gleaming  eyes,  striding  along 
the  road  toward  him,  to  seize  him  in  a  resistless 
grasp,  and  send  him  to  some  awful  fate ;  or,  if 
not  that,  at  any  rate  to  administer  to  him  some 
tremendous  blow,  like  that  catapultian  kick,  which 
would  hurl  him  in  an  instant  into  oblivion. 

The  time  passed  by.  He  lay  there  in  pain 
and  in  fear.  Excitement  and  suffering  had  dis- 
ordered his  brain.  The  constant  apprehension 
of  danger  made  iiim  watchful,  and  his  distem- 
pered imagination  made  him  fancy  that  every 
sound  was  the  footstep  of  his  enemy.  Watch- 
ful against  this,  he  held  his  pistol  in  his  nerveless 
grasp,  feeling  conscious  at  the  same  time  how  in- 
effectively he  would  use  it  if  the  need  for  its  use 
should  arise.  The  road  before  him  wound  rotmd 
the  hill  up  which  he  had  clambered  in  such  a 
way  that  but  a  small  part  of  it  was  visible  from 
where  he  sat.  Behind  Ijim  rose  the  wall  of  the 
park,  and  all  around  the  trees  grew  thickly  and 
hheltered  him. 

Suddenly,  as  he  looked  th«re  Avith  ceaseless 
vigilance,  lie  becamo  aware  of  a  figure  thiU  was 
moving  up  the  road.  It  was  a  woman's  form. 
The  figure  was  dressed  in  white,  the  face  was 
white,  and  round  that  face  there  were  gathered 
KTcat  masses  of  dark  hair.      To  his  disordered 


senses  it  seemed  at  that  moment  as  if  this  figure 
glided  along  the  ground. 

Filled  with  a  kind  of  horror,  he  raised  him- 
self up,  one  hand  still  grasping  tlie  ))istol,  while 
the  other  clutched  a  tree  in  front  of  him  with  a 
convulsive  grasp,  his  eyes  fixed  on  this  figure. 
Something  in  its  outline  served  to  create  all  this 
new  fear  that  had  arisen,  and  fascinated  his  gaze. 
To  his  excited  sensibility,  now  rendered  morbid 
by  the  terrors  of  the  last  few  hours,  this  figure, 
with  its  white  robes,  seemed  like  something  su- 
pernatural sent  across  his  path.  It  was  dim 
twilight,  and  the  object  was  a  little  indistinct ; 
yet  he  could  see  it  sufficiently  well.  There  was 
that  about  it  which  sent  an  awful  suspicion  over 
him.  All  that  Hilda  had  told  him  recurred  to 
his  mind. 

And  now,  just  as  the  figure  was  passing,  and 
while  his  eyes  were  riveted  on  it,  the  face  slowly 
and  solemnly  turned  toward  him. 

At  the  sight  of  the  face  which  was  thus  pre- 
sented there  passed  through  him  a  sudden  pang 
of  unendurable  anguish — a  spasm  of  terror  so  in- 
tolerable that  it  might  make  one  die  on  the  spot. 
For  a  moment  only  he  saw  that  face.  The  next 
moment  it  had  turned  away.  The  figure  passed 
on.  Yet  in  that  moment  he  had  seen  e  face 
fully  and  perfectly.  He  had  recognized  i  He 
knew  it  as  the  face  of  one  who  now  lay  far  down 
beneath  the  depths  of  the  sea — of  {.ne  whom  he 
had  betrayed — whom  he  had  done  to  death! 
This  was  the  face  which  now,  in  all  the  pallor 
of  the  grave,  was  turned  toward  him,  and  seem- 
ed to  cJiange  him  to  stone  as  he  gazed. 

The  figure  passed  on — the  figure  of  Zillah — to 
this  conscience-stricken  wretch  a  phantom  of  the 
dead  ;  and  he,  overwhelmed  by  this  new  horror, 
sank  back  into  insensibility. 


CHAPTER  LXIX. 

THK  VISION  OF   THE    LOST. 

It  was  twilight  when  Gualtier  sank  back  sense- 
less. When  he  at  last  came  to  himself  it  was 
i.ight.  The  moon  was  shining  brightly,  and  the 
wind  was  sighing  through  the  pines  solemnly  and 
sadly.  It  was  some  time  before  he  could  recall 
his  scattei'ed  senses  so  as  to  understand  where 
he  was.  At  last  he  remembered,  and  the  gloom 
around  him  gave  additional  force  to  the  tiirill  of 
superstitious  horror  which  was  excited  by  that 
remembrance.  He  roused  himself  with  a  wild 
effort,  and  hunted  in  the  grass  for  his  pistol, 
which  now  was  his  only  reliance.  Finding  this, 
he  hurried  down  toward  the  road.  Every  limb 
now  ached,  and  his  brain  still  felt  the  stupefying 
effects  of  his  late  swoon.  It  was  only  with  ex- 
treme difflculty  that  he  could  drag  himself  along; 
yet  such  was  the  horror  on  his  mind  that  he  de- 
spised the  pain,  and  hurried  down  the  road  rap- 
idly, seeking  only  to  escape  as  soon  as  possible 
out  from  among  the  shadows  of  these  dark  and 
terrible  woods,  and  into  the  open  plain.  His 
hasty,  hurried  steps  were  attended  with  the  se- 
verest pain,  yet  he  sped  onward,  and,  at  last, 
after  what  seemed  to  him  an  interminable  time, 
he  emerged  out  of  the  shadows  of  the  forest  into 
the  broad,  bright  moonlight  of  the  meadows 
which  skirt  the  Arno.  Hurrying  along  for  a  few 
hundred  yards,  he  sank  down  at  last  by  the  rood- 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


227 


side,  completely  exhiiusted.  In  about  an  hour 
lie  resumed  his  journey,  and  then  sank  exhaust- 
ed once  more,  after  traversing  a  few  miles.  It 
was  sunrise  before  he  readied  the  inn  where  he 
stopped.  All  that  day  and  the  next  night  he  lay 
in  bed.  On  the  following  day  he  went  to  Flor- 
ence ;  and,  taking  the  hour  when  he  knew  that 
Ijord  Chetwynde  was  out,  he  culled  on  Hilda. 

He  had  not  beer,  there  or  seen  her  since  that 
visit  which  he  had  ])aid  on  his  first  arrival  at 
Florence  from  England.  He  had  firmly  resolved 
not  to  see  her  until  he  had  done  something  of 
.some  consequence,  and  by  this  resolution  he  in- 
tended that  he  should  go  to  her  as  the  triumph- 
ant discoverer  of  the  mystery  which  she  sought 
to  unravel.  Something  had,  indeed,  been  done, 
but  the  dark  mystery  lay  still  unrevealed ;  and 
what  he  had  discovered  was  certainly  important, 
yet  not  of  such  a  kind  as  could  excite  any  thing 
like  a  feeling  of  triumph.  He  went  to  her  now 
becau.se  he  coidd  not  help  it,  and  went  in  bitter- 
ness and  humiliation.  That  he  should  go  at  all 
nnder  such  circumstances  only  showed  how  com- 
plete and  utter  had  been  his  discomfiture.  But 
yet,  in  spite  of  this,  there  had  been  no  cowardice 
of  which  he  could  accuse  himself,  and  he  had 
shrunk  from  no  danger.  He  had  dared  Lord 
('hetwyndo  almost  face  to  face.  Flying  from 
him,  he  had  encountered  one  whom  he  might 
never  have  anticipated  meeting.  Last  of  all,  he 
had  been  overpowered  by  the  phantom  of  the 
dead.  All  these  were  sufficient  causes  for  an  in- 
terview with  Hilda,  if  it  were  only  for  the  sake 
of  letting  her  know  the  fearful  obstacles  that 
were  accumulating  before  her,  the  alliance  of 
her  worst  enemies,  and  the  reappearance  of  the 
spectre. 

As  Hilda  entered  the  room  and  looked  at  him, 
she  was  startled  at  the  change  in  him.  The  hue 
of  his  face  had  changed  from  its  ordinary  sallow 
complexion  to  a  kind  of  grizzly  pallor.  His  hands 
shook  with  nervous  tremulousness,  his  brow  was 
contracted  through  pain,  his  eyes  had  a  wistful 
eagerness,  and  lie  seemed  twenty  years  older. 

"  You  do  not  look  like  a  bearer  of  good  news," 
said  she,  after  shaking  hands  with  him  in  si- 
lence. 

Gualtier  shook  his  head  mournfully. 

"  Have  you  found  out  nothing?" 

He  sighed. 

"  I'm  afraid  I've  found  out  too  much  by  far." 

"  What  do  you  mean?" 

"I  hardly  know.  I  only  know  this,  that  my 
searches  have  shown  me  that  the  mystery  is  deep- 
er than  ever." 

"  You  seem  to  me  to  be  very  quickly  discour- 
aged," said  Hilda,  in  a  disaj)pointed  tone. 

"That  which  I  have  found  out  and  seen," 
said  Gualtier,  solemnly,  "is  something  which 
might  discourage  the  most  persevering,  and  ap- 
pall the  boldest.  My  lady,"  he  added,  mourn- 
fully, "there  is  a  power  at  work  which  stands 
between  you  and  the  accomplishment  of  your 
purpose,  and  dashes  us  back  when  that  purjiose 
seems  nearest  to  its  attainment." 

"  I  do  not  understand  you,"  said  Hilda,  slow- 
ly, while  a  dark  foreboding  arose  in  her  mind, 
and  a  fearful  suspicion  of  Gualtier's  meaning. 
"Tell  me  what  you  mean,  and  what  you  have 
been  doing  since  I  saw  you  lust.  You  certainly 
must  have  had  a  very  unusual  experience." 

It  was  with  an  evident  ef.'ort  that  Gualtier  was 


able  to  speak.  His  words  came  painfidly  and 
slowly,  and  in  this  way  he  told  his  story. 

He  began  by  narrating  the  steps  which  he  had 
taken  to  secure  himself  from  discovery  by  the  use 
of  a  disguise,  and  his  first  tracking  of  Lord  Chet- 
wynde to  the  gates  of  the  villa.  He  described 
the  situation  to  her  very  clearly,  and  told  her  all 
that  he  had  learned  from  the  peasants,  He  then 
told  her  how,  by  long  watching,  he  had  discov- 
ered Lord  Chetwynde's  periodical  visits,  altern- 
ately made  at  the  great  and  the  small  gate,  and 
had  resolved  to  find  out  the  reason  of  such  very 
singular  journeys. 

To  all  this  Hilda  listened  with  breathless  in- 
terest and  intense  emotion,  which  increased,  if 
possible,  up  to  that  time  when  he  was  noticed  and 
pursued  by  Lord  (Chetwynde.  Then  followed  the 
story  of  his  journey  through  the  woods  and  the 
l)aths  till  he  found  himself  face  to  face  with  Obed 
Chute. 

At  the  mention  of  this  name  she  interrupted 
him  with  an  exclamation  of  wonder  and  despair, 
followed  by  many  questions.  She  herself  felt  all 
that  jierplexity  at  this  discovery  of  his  friendship 
with  Lord  Chetwynde  which  Gualtier  had  felt,  and 
all  the  thoughts  which  then  had  occurred  to  him 
now  came  to  her,  to  be  poured  forth  in  innumer- 
able questions.  Such  questions  he  was,  of  course, 
unable  to  answer.  The  appearance  of  this  man 
u])on  the  scene  was  a  circumstance  which  excited 
in  Hilda's  mind  vague  apprehensions  of  some  un- 
known danger;  yet  his  connection  with  Lord 
Chetwynde  was  so  inexplicable  that  it  was  im- 
jjossible  to  know  what  to  think  or  to  fear. 

The  discussion  of  this  new  turn  in  the  prog- 
ress of  things  took  up  some  time.  Exciting  as 
this  intelligence  had  been  to  Hilda,  the  conclu- 
sion of  Gualtier's  narrative  was  far  more  so. 
This  ,was  the  climax,  and  Gualtier,  who  had 
been  weak  and  languid  in  speaking  abou*  the 
other  things,  here  rose  into  unusual  excitement, 
enlarging  upon  every  particular  in  that  occur- 
rence, and  introducing  all  those  details  which 
his  own  vivid  imagination  had  in  that  moment 
of  half  delirium  tlirown  aixiund  the  figure  which 
he  had  seen. 

"  It  floated  before  me,"  said  he,  with  a  shud- 
der; "  its  robes  were  white,  and  hung  down  as 
though  still  dri)i]iing  with  the  water  of  the  sea. 
It  moved  noiselessly  utiti!  it  came  opposite  to 
me,  and  then  turned  its  full  face  toward  me. 
The  eyes  were  bright  and  luminous,  and  seemed 
to  burn  into  my  soul.  They  are  before  me  yet. 
Never  shall  I  forget  the  horror  of  that  moment. 
When  the  figure  passed  on  I  fell  d  )wn  senseless," 

"In  the  name  of  God!"  burnt  forth  Hilda, 
whose  eyes  dilated  with  the  terrrr  of  that  tale, 
while  she  trembled  fi'i.n  Iiead  to  xiot  in  .'earful 
sympathy,  " is  this  truu  1'  i.'ani',  be?  i)ia  you, 
too,  see  her?" 

"  Herself,  and  no  other!"  answered  Gualtier, 
in  a  scarce  audible  voice, 

"Once  before,"  said  Hilda,  "that  apparition 
came.  It  was  to  me.  You  know  what  the  ef- 
fect was,  I  told  you.  You  were  then  very  cool 
and  philosophical.  You  found  it  very  easy  to 
account  for  it  on  scientific  principles.  You  spoke 
of  excitement,  imagination,  and  disspsed  optic 
nerves.  Now,  in  your  own  case,  have  you  been 
able  to  account  for  this  in  the  same  way  ?" 

"I  have  not,"  said  Gualtier.  "Such  ar<»u- 
ments  to  me  now  seem  to  be  nothing  but  words 


228 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


■I', 


— empty  words,  satisfactory  enough,  no  doubt, 
to  those  who  have  never  had  this  revelation  of 
another  world,  but  idle  and  meaningless  to  those 
who  liave  seen  what  I  have  seen.  Why,  do  I 
not  know  that  she  is  beneath  the  Mediterranean, 
and  yet  did  I  not  see  her  myself?  You  were 
right,  though  I  did  not  understand  your  feelings, 
when  you  found  all  my  theories  vain.  Now,  since 
I  have  had  your  experience,  I,  too,  find  them 
vain.  It's  the  old  story — the  old,  old  hackneyed 
saying,"  he  continued,  wearily — 

" '  Tliere  are  more  things  in  heaven  and  earth,  Horatio, 
Than  are  dreamt  of  in  your  philosophy."' 

A  long  silence  followed. 

"We  have  been  warned,"  said  Hilda  at 
length.  "The  dead  arise  before  us,"  she  con- 
itinued,  solemnly,  "  to  thwart  our  plans  and  our 
•purposes.  The  dead  wife  of  Lord  Chetwynde 
coraes  back  from  beneath  the  sea  to  prev:int  our 
undertakings,  and  to  protect  him  from  us. " 

Gualtier  said  notliing.  In  his  own  soul  he  felt 
the  deep  truth  of  this  remark.  Both  sat  now  for 
some  tin.e  in  silence  and  in  solemn  meditation, 
while  a  dee)  gloom  settled  down  upon  them. 

At  last  Gualtier  spoke. 

"It  would  have  been  far  better,"  said  he,  "  if 
you  had  allowed  me  to  complete  that  business. 
It  was  nearly  done.  The  worst  was  over.  You 
should  not  have  interfered." 

Hilda  made  no  reply.  In  her  own  heart  there 
were  now  wild  desires,  and  already  she  herself 
had  become  familiar  with  'his  thought. 

"It  can  yet  be  done,"  said  Gualtier. 

"But  how  can  you  do  it  again — after  this?" 
said  Hilda. 

"  You  are  now  the  one,"  replied  Gualtier. 
"You  have  the  power  and  the  opportunity.  As 
for  me,  you  know  that  I  could  not  become  his 
valet  again.  The  chance  was  once  all  my  own, 
but  you  destroyed  it.  I  dare  not  venture  before 
him  again.  It  would  be  ruin  to  both  of  us.  He 
would  recognize  me  under  any  disguise,  and  Ijave 
me  at  once  arrested.  But  if  you  know  any  way 
in  which  I  can  be  of  use,  or  in  which  I  can  have 
access  to  his  presence,  tell  me,  and  I  will  gladly 
risk  my  life  to  please  you." 

But  Hilda  knew  of  none,  and  had  nothing  to 
say. 

"You,  and  you  alone,  have  the  power  now," 
said  Gualtier ;  "  this  work  must  be  done  by  you 
alone. " 

"  Yes,"  said  Hilda,  after  a  pause.  "  It  is  true, 
I  have  the  power — I  have  the  power,"  she  re- 
peated, in  a  tone  of  gloomy  resolve,  "and  the 
power  shall  be  exercised,  cither  on  him,  or  on 
myself." 

"On  yourself.'" 

"Yes." 

"Are  you  still  thinking  of  such  a  thing  as 
that?"  asked  Gualtier,  with  a  shudder. 

"That  thought,"  said  Hilda,  calmly,  "has 
been  familiar  to  me  before,  as  you  very  well 
know.  It  is  still  a  familiar  one,  and  it  may  be 
acted  upon  at  any  moment." 

"Would  you  dare  to  do  it?" 

"  Dare  to  do  it !"  repeated  Hilda.  "  Do  you 
ask  thft  .|ue8tion  of  me  after  what  I  told  you  at 
Lausanne  ?  Did  I  not  tell  you  there  that  what  I 
dared  to  administer  to  another,  I  dared  also  to 
administer  to  myself?  You  surely  must  remem- 
ber how  weak,  all  those  menaces  of  yours  proved 


when  you  triad  to  coerce-  ine  i^t^.t.  i  i.u  had 
done  once  before.  You  must  know  tin;  reason 
why  they  v'""e  so  powerless.  !t  was  b>'"ause  to 
me  all  life,  and  all  the  honors  and  pleasures  of 
life,  had  grown  to  be  nothing  without  tliat  one 
aim  after  which  I  was  seeking.  Do  you  not  un- 
derstand yet  ?" 

"My  God!"  was  Gualtier's  reply,  "h  yon 
love  that  man!"  These  words  burst  fonii  in- 
voluntarily, as  he  looked  at  her  in  the  anguish 
of  his  despair. 

Hilda's  eyes  fastened  themselves  on  his,  and 
looked  at  him  out  of  the  depths  of  a  despair 
which  was  deeper  than  his  own — a  despair  which 
had  now  made  life  valueless. 

"  You  can  not — you  will  not,"  exclaimed  Gual- 
tier, passionately. 

"I  can,"  said  Hilda,  "and  it  is  very  possible 
that  I  will." 

"  You  do  not  know  what  it  is  that  you  speak 
about." 

"I  am  not  afraid  of  death,"  said  Hilda,  coldly, 
"if  that  is  what  you  mean.  It  can  not  be  worse 
than  this  life  of  mine." 

"  But  you  do  not  understand  what  it  means," 
said  Gualtier.  "  I  am  not  speaking  of  the  mere 
act  itself,  but  of  its  consequences.  Picture  to 
yourself  Lord  Chetwynde  exulting  over  this,  and 
seeing  that  hated  obstacle  removed  which  kept 
him  from  his  perfect  happiness.  You  die,  and 
you  leave  him  to  pursue  uninterrupted  the  joy 
that  he  has  with  his  paramour.  Can  you  face 
such  a  thought  as  that  ?  Would  not  this  woman 
rejoice  at  hearing  of  such  a  thing  ?  Do  you  wish 
to  add  to  their  happiness  ?  Are  you  so  sublimely 
self-sacrificing  that  you  will  die  to  make  Lord 
Chetwynde  happy  in  his  love  ?" 

"How  can  he  be  happy  in  his  love?"  said 
Hilda.      "  She  is  married." 

"  She  may  not  be.  You  only  conjecture  that. 
It  may  be  her  father  whom  she  guards  against, 
or  her  gnardi.in.  Obed  Chute  is  no  doubt  the 
man — either  her  father  or  guardian,  and  Lord 
Chetwynde  has  to  guard  against  suspicion.  But 
what  then?  If  you  die,  can  he  not  find  some 
other,  and  solace  himself  in  her  smiles,  and  in 
the  wealth  that  will  now  be  all  his  own '(" 

These  words  stung  Hilda  to  the  ([uick,  and 
she  sat  silent  and  thoughtful.  To  die  so  as  to 
get  rid  of  trouble  was  one  thing,  but  a  death 
which  should  have  such  conse(|uences  as  these 
was  a  very  different  thing.  Singularly  enough, 
she  had  never  thought  of  this  before.  And  now. 
when  the  thought  came,  it  was  intolerable.  It 
produced  within  her  a  new  revolution  of  feeling, 
and  turned  her  thoughts  away  from  that  gloomy 
idea  which  had  so  often  haunted  her. 

"//e  is  the  only  one  against  whom  you  can 
work," continued  Gualtier ;  "and  you  alone  have 
the  power  of  doing  it." 

Hilda  said  nothing.  If  this  work  must  be 
done  by  her,  there  were  many  things  to  be  con- 
sidered, and  these  required  time. 

"  But  you  will  not  desert  me, "  said  she,  sud- 
denly ;  for  she  fancied  from  Gualtier's  manner 
that  he  had  given  up  all  further  idea  of  helping 
her. 

His  face  flushed. 

"  Is  it  possible  that  you  can  still  find  any  way 
to  em[)loy  me  ?  This  is  more  than  I  hoped  for. 
I  leared  that  your  indignation  at  my  failure 
would  cause  you  to  dismiss  me  as  useless.     If 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


229 


can 
have 


siul- 
\iiner 
Ipiiig 


wnv 
ifor. 
lilnre 
If 


THE  DEAD  AND  THE  LOST  ALL  COME  TO  ME. 


you  can  find  any  tiling  for  me  to  do,  I  can  as- 
sure yon  tluit  the  only  happiness  that  I  can  have 
will  be  in  doing  that  thing." 

"Your  fiiilure,"  said  Hilda,  "was  not  your 
fault.     You  have  done  well,  and  suffered  much. 
I  am  not  ungrateful.    You  will  be  rewarded  ye! 
I  shall  yet  have  something  for  you  to  do.     I  will 
send  for  you  when  the  time  comes." 

She  rose  as  she  said  this,  and  held  out  her 
hand  to  Gunltier.  lie  took  it  respectfully,  and 
with  an  earnest  look  at  her,  full  of  gratitude  and 
devotion,  he  withdrew. 

Hilda  sat  for  a  long  time  involved  in  deep 
thought.  What  should  be  her  next  plan  of  ac- 
tion? Many  different  things  suggested  them- 
selves, but  all  seemed  equally  impracticable,  or 
at  l"rvst  objoctionai)le.  Nor  was  she  as  yet  pre- 
pared lO  begin  with  her  own  hands,  and  by  her- 
self, that  i)art  which  Gualtier  had  suggested. 
Not  yet  were  her  nerves  steady  enough.  But 
the  hint  which  Gunltier  had  thrown  out  about 
the  proliable  results  of  her  own  death  upon  Lord 
Chetwynde  did  more  to  re(  icile  her  to  life  than 
any  thing  that  could  have  ha|)])ened  short  of  act- 
ually giiining  him  for  herself. 

Wearied  at  last  of  fruitless  plans  and  result- 
less  thoughts,  sho  Avent  out  for  a  walk.     She 


dressed  herself  in  black,  and  wore  a  heavy  black 
crape  veil  which  entirely  concealed  the  features. 
She  knew  no  one  in  Florence  from  whom  she 
needed  to  disguise  herself,  but  her  nature  was  of 
it.self  secretive,  and  even  in  a  thing  like  this  she 
chose  concealment  rather  than  openness.  Be- 
sides, she  had  some  vague  hopes  that  she  might 
encounter  Lord  (Jhetwynde  somewhere,  iierhaps 
with  this  woman,  and  could  watch  him  while  un- 
observed herself. 

She  walked  as  far  as  the  church  of  Santa 
Croce.  She  walked  up  the  steps  with  a  vague 
idea  of  going  in. 

As  she  walked  up  there  came  a  woman  down 
the  ste])s  dressed  in  as  deep  mourning  as  Hilda 
herself.  She  was  old,  she  was  slender,  her  veil 
was  thrown  back,  and  the  white  face  was  phiinly 
visible  to  Hilda  as  she  passed.  Hilda  stood 
rooted  to  the  spot,  though  the  other  woman  did 
not  notice  her  emotion,  nor  could  she  have  seen 
her  face  through  the  veil.  She  stood  piinilvEed, 
and  looking  after  the  retreating  figure  as  it  moved 
away. 

"The  dead  and  the  lost,"  she  murmured,  as 
she  stood  there  with  clasped  hands — "the  dead 
and  the  lost  all  come  to  me!  Mis.  Hurt! 
About  her  face  there  can  bo  no  mistake.     What 


2^0 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


is  she  doing  here — in  the  same  town  with  Lord 
Chetwjnde?  Am  I  ruined  yet  or  not?  I'm 
afraid  I  have  not  much  time  left  me  to  run  my 
course. " 

In  deep  despondency  she  retraced  her  steps, 
and  went  back  to  her  room. 


CHAPTER  LXX. 


NEW  PROJECTS. 


The  unexpected  appearance  of  Mrs.  Hart  was 
in  many  respects,  and  for  many  reasons,  an  aw- 
ful shock  to  Hilda.  It  was  a  new  danger,  lesf. 
terrible  than  tliat  which  had  arisen  from  the 
phantom  which  had  twice  appeared,  yet  perhaps 
in  reality  more  jierilons.  It  filled  her  with  ap- 
prehensions of  the  worst.  All  that  night  she 
lay  awake  thinking  over  it.  How  had  Mrs. 
Hart  come  to  Florence,  and  why,  and  what  was 
she  doing  here?  Such  were  her  thoughts.  Was 
she  also  in  connection  with  Lord  Chetwynde  and 
with  this  Obed  Chute?  It  seemed  probable.  If 
80,  then  it  seemed  equally  probable  that  there 
was  some  design  on  foot  against  her.  At  first 
the  thought  of  this  inspired  in  her  a  great  feai', 
and  a  desire  to  fly  from  the  impending  danger. 
For  a  moment  she  almost  decided  to  give  uj)  her 
present  purpose  forever,  collect  as  much  money 
as  she  could,  and  fly  to  some  distant  place,  where 
she  might  get  rid  of  all  her  danger  and  forget  all 
her  troubles.  But  this  thought  was  only  mo- 
mentary, for  higher  than  her  desire  for  comfort 
or  peace  of  mind  rose  her  thirst  for  vengeance. 
It  would  not  satisfy  her  that  she  alone  should 
suffer.  Lord  Chetwynde  also  should  have  his 
own  share,  and  she  would  begin  by  unmasking 
him  and  revealing  his  intrigue  to  her  supposed 
husband. 

On  the  following  day  Gualtier  called,  and  in  a 
few  words  she  told  liiin  what  had  taken  ])lace. 

"  Are  you  really  confident  that  it  was  Mrs. 
Hart?"  he  asked,  with  some  anxiety. 

"As  confident  as  I  am  of  my  own  existence. 
Indeed,  no  mistake  was  possible." 

Gualtier  looked  deeply  troubled. 

"  It  looks  ))ad,"  said  he ;  "  but,  after  all,  there 
are  ways  of  accounting  for  it.  She  may  have 
heard  that  Lord  Chetwynde  intended  to  go  to 
Italy  and  to  Florence — for  it  was  quite  possible 
that  he  mentioned  it  to  her  at  the  Castle — and 
when  she  went  away  she  may  have  intended  to 
come  here  in  search  of  him.  I  dare  say  she 
went  to  London  first,  and  found  out  from  his 
solicitors  where  he  had  gone.  There  isn't  the 
slightest  probability,  at  any  rate,  that  he  can 
have  met  with  her.  If  he  had  met  with  her, 
you  would  have  known  it  yourself  soon  enongli. 
hhe  woidd  have  been  here  to  see  his  wife,  with 
the  same  affectionate  solicitude  which  she  show- 
ed once  before — which  you  told  me  of  No. 
Rest  assured  Lord  Chetwynde  knows  nothing 
of  her  presence  here.  There  are  others  who 
take  up  all  his  thoughts.  It  seems  probable, 
also,  that  she  has  just  arrived,  and  there  is  no 
doubt  that  she  is  on  the  look-out  for  him.  At 
any  rate,  there  is  one  comfort.  You  are  sure, 
you  say,  that  she  did  not  recognize  you?" 

"  No ;  that  was  impossible ;  for  1  wore  a  thick 
veil.  No  one  coidd  possiiily  distinguish  my  feat- 
ures." 


"  And  she  can  not,  of  course,  suspect  that  yon 
are  here  ?" 

"She  can  not  have  Any  such  suspicion,  unless 
we  have  been  ourselves  living  in  the  dark  all  this 
time— unless  she  is  really  in  league  with  Lord 
Chetwynde.  And  who  can  tell?  Perhaps  all 
this  titne  this  Chute  and  Mrs.  Hart  and  Lord 
Chetwynde  have  their  own  designs,  and  are  qui- 
etly weaving  a  net  around  me  from  which  I  can 
not  escape.  Who  can  tell  ?  Ah !  how  easily  1 
could  escape — if  it  were  not  fbr  one  thing !" 

"Oh,  as  to  that,  you  may  dismiss  the  idea," 
said  Gualtier,  confidently;  "and  as  for  Lord 
Chetwynde,  you  may  rest  assured  that  he  does 
not  think  enough  about  you  to  take  the  smallest 
trouble  one  way  or  another." 

Hilda's  eyes  blazed. 

"He  shall  have  cause  enough  to  think  about 
me  yet,"  she  cried.  "  I  have  made  up  my  mind 
what  I  am  to  do  next." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  I  intend  to  go  myself  to  Obed  Chute's  villa.' 

"The  villa!    Yourself!" 

"Yes." 

"You!" 

"  I— myself.     You  can  not  go." 

"  No.     But  how  can  you  go  ?" 

"Easily  enough.     I  have  nothing  to  fear." 

"  But  this  man  is  a  i)erfect  demon.     How  will 
you  be  able  to  encounter  him  ?     He  would  treat  • 
you  as  brutally  as  a  savage.     I  know  him  well. 
i  have  reason  to.     You  are  not  the  one  to  go 
there." 

"  Oh  yes,  I  am,"  said  Hilda,  carelessly.  "  Yon 
forget  what  a  difference  tbere  is  between  a  visit 
from  you  and  a  visit  from  me. " 

"There  is  a  ditt'erence,  it  is  true  ;  but  I  doubt 
whether  Obed  Chute  is  the  man  to  see  it.  At 
any  rate,  you  can  not  think  of  going  without 
some  jiretext.  And  what  one  can  you  possibly 
have  that  will  be  at  all  plausible?" 

"Pretext!  I  have  the  best  in  the  world.  It 
is  hardly  a  pretext  either.  I  intend  to  go  open- 
ly, in  my  own  proper  person — as  Lady  Chet- 
wynde. " 

"As  Lady  Chetwynde!"  repeated  Gualtier,  in 
amazement.  "  What  do  you  mean  ?  Would  it 
be  too  much  to  ask  you  what  your  jdan  may  be, 
or  what  it  is  that  you  may  have  in  view  ?" 

"It's  simple  enough,'' said  Hilda.  "It  is 
this.  You  will  understand  it  readily  enough,  1 
think.  You  see,  I  have  discovered  by  accident 
some  mysterious  writing  in  cipher,  which  by  an- 
other accident  I  have  been  enabled  to  unravel. 
Now  you  understand  that  this  writing  makes 
very  serious  charges  indeed  against  my  father, 
the  late  General  Pomeroy.  He  is  dead  ;  but  1, 
as  an  afl'ectionate  daughter,  am  most  anxious  to 
understand  the  meaning  of  this  fearfid  accusa- 
tion thus  made  against  the  best  of  men.  I  have 
seen  the  name  of  this  Obed  Chute  mentioned  in 
some  of  the  papers  cotniected  with  the  secret 
writing,  and  have  found  certain  letters  from  him 
referring  to  the  case.  Having  heard  very  imex- 
pectcdly  that  he  is  in  Florence,  I  intend  to  call 
on  him  to  implore  him  to  explain  to  me  all  thi» 
mystery." 

"That  is  admirable,"  said  Gualtier. 

"Of  course  it  is,"  said  Hilda;  "nothing,  inoeea, 
could  be  better.  This  will  give  mo  admission  to 
the  villa.  Once  in  there,  I  shall  have  to  rely  upon 
circumstances.     Whatever  those  circinnstances 


ttmUm 


.1" 

it 

be, 


iiii- 
vel. 
ikes 


nvc 
ill 
erot 
liin 
ex- 


call 
this 


eea, 
n  to 
I  poll 
icea 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


231 


may  be,  I  shall,  at  least,  be  confronted  with  Lord 
Clietwynde,  iiiid  find  out  who  this  woman  is.  I 
hope  to  win  the  friendship  and  the  confidence  of 
these  f)eople.  They  will  pity  me,  sympathize 
with  me,  and  invite  me  there.  If  Lord  Chet- 
wynde  is  such  a  friend,  they  con  hardly  overlook 
his  wife.  The  woman,  whoever  she  may  be, 
even  if  she  hates  me,  as  she  must,  will  yet  see 
that  it  is  her  best  policy  to  be  at  least  civil  to 
me.  And  that  will  open  a  way  to  final  and  com- 
plete vengeance." 

To  this  plan  Gualtier  listened  in  unfeigned  ad- 
miration. 

"You  have  solved  the  mystery!"  said  he,  ex- 
citedly. "You  will — you  must  succeed,  where  I 
have  tailed  so  miserably." 

"  No,"  said  Hilda,  "you have  not  failed.  Had 
it  not  been  for  you  I  could  never  have  had  this 
chance.  It  is  by  your  discovery  of  Obed  Chute 
that  you  have  made  my  present  course  possible. 
You  have  suffered  for  my  cause,  but  your  suffer- 
ings will  make  that  cause  at  last  triumphant." 

"  For  such  a  result  as  that  I  would  sufl'er  ten 
thousand  times  more,"  said  Gualtier,  in  impas- 
sioned tones. 

"  You  will  not  be  exposed  to  any  further  suf- 
ferings, my  friend,"  said  Hilda.  "1  only  want 
your  assistance  now." 

"It  is  yours  already.  Whatever  you  ask  I 
am  ready  to  do." 

"  What  I  ask  is  not  much,"  said  Hilda.     "  I 
merely  want  you  to  be  near  tlie  spot,  so  as  to  be 
in  readiness  to  assist  me."' 
_  "  On  the  spot!     Do  you  mean  at  the  villa?" 

"No,  not  at  the  villa,  but  near  it,  somewhere 
along  the  road.  I  wish  you  to  see  who  goes  and 
comes.  Go  out  there  to-day,  and  watch.  You 
need  not  go  within  a  mile  of  the  villa  itself;  that 
will  be  enough.  You  will  then  know  when  Lord 
Chetwynde  comes.  You  can  watch  from  behind 
some  hedge,  J  suppose.     Can  you  do  that?" 

"That? — that  is  but  a  slight  thing.  Most 
willingly  will  I  do  this,  and  far  more,  no  matter 
what,  even  if  I  have  to  face  a  second  time  that 
phantom." 

"I  will  go  out  to-morrow,  or  on  the  following 
day.  I  want  you  to  be  on  the  watch,  and  see 
who  may  go  to  the  villa,  so  that  when  I  come 
you  may  let  me  know.  I  do  not  want  to  call 
unless  I  positively  know  that  Lord  Chetwynde 
will  be  there,  and  the  family  also.  They  may 
possibly  go  out  for  a  drive,  or  something  may 
happen,  and  this  is  what  I  want  you  to  be  on  the 
look-out  for.  If  Lord  Chetwynde  is  there,  and 
that  woman,  there  will  probably  be  a  scene, "con- 
tinued Hilda,  gloomily;  "but  it  will  be  a  scene 
in  which,  from  the  very  nature  of  the  case,  I 
ought  to  be  triumphant.  I've  been  sufVring  too 
much  of  late.  It  is  now  about  time  for ..  change, 
and  it  seems  to  me  that  it  is  now  my  turn  to  have 
good  fortune.  Indeed,  I  can  not  conceive  how 
there  can  be  any  failure.  The  only  possible  awk- 
wardness would  be  the  presence  of  Mrs.  Hart. 
If  she  should  be  there,  then — why,  then,  I'm 
afraid  all  would  be  over.  That  is  a  risk,  how- 
ever, and  I  must  run  it. " 

"That  need  not  be  regarded,"  said  Gualtier. 
"If  Mrs.  Hart  had  found  Lord  Chetwynde,  you 
would  have  known  it  before  this." 

"That  is  my  chief  reliance." 
"  Have  you  those  papers  ?" 
"Papers?" 


"Yes;  the  cipher  and  the  letters." 

"  Oh  yes.     Did  I  not  say  that  I  had  them  all  ?" 

"  No.  I  thought  that  you  had  given  them  all 
to — to  her,"  said  Gualtier. 

"So  I  did;  but  I  got  tliem  back,  and  have 
kept  them,  I  d  jn't  know  why.  I  suppose  it  was 
from  an  instinct  of  forecast.  Whatever  was  the 
reason,  however,  they  are  now  of  priceless  value. 
For  they  enable  me  i.ow  to  go  as  the  daughter 
of  one  who  'las  been  charged  in  these  i)apers 
with  thecomn.ission  ofthe  most  atrocious  crimes. 
This  must  al'  be  explained  to  me,  and  by  this 
Obed  Chute,  who  is  the  only  living  person  who 
can  do  it." 

"  I  am  glad  that  what  I  have  done  will  be  use- 
ful to  you,"  said  Gualtier.  "You  may  trust  to 
me  now  to  do  all  that  man  can  do.  I  will  go  and 
watch  and  wait  till  you  come." 

Hilda  thereupon  expressed  the  deepest  grati- 
tude to  him,  and  she  did  this  in  language  far 
more  earnest  than  any  which  she  had  ever  before 
used  to  him.  It  may  have  been  the  conscious- 
ness that  this  would  be  the  last  service  which  he 
was  to  perform  for  her;  it  may  have  been  an  in- 
tentional recognition  of  his  past  acts  of  love  and 
devotion ;  it  may  have  been  a  tardy  act  of  recog- 
nition c*"all  his  fidelity  and  constancy;  but,  what- 
ever it  was,  her  words  sank  deep  into  his  soul. 

"Those  words,"  said  he,  "are  a  reward  for 
all  the  past.  May  1  not  yet  hope  for  a  fntnre 
reward  ?" 

"  You  may,  my  friend.  Did  I  not  give  you 
my  promise  ?" 

"Hilda.'" 

This  word  burst  from  him.  It  was  the  first 
time  that  he  had  so  addressed  her.  Not  even  in 
the  hour  of  his  triumph  and  coercion  had  he  ven- 
tured upon  this.  But  now  her  kindness  had  em- 
boldened him.  He  took  her  hand,  and  pressed 
it  to  his  lips. 

"I  have  a  presentiment  of  evil,"  said  he. 
"  We  may  never  meet  again.  But  you  will  not 
forget  me?" 

Hilda  gave  a  long  sigh. 

"  If  we  meet  again,"  said  she,  "  we  ohall  see 
enough  of  one  another.  If  not" — and  she  paused 
for  a  moment — "if  not,  then" — and  a  solemn 
cadence  came  to  her  voice — "then  you  will  be 
the  one  who  will  remember,  and  /  shall  be  the  one 
to  be  remembered.     Farewell,  my  friend !" 

She  held  out  her  hand. 

Once  more  Gualtier  pressed  it  to  his  lips. 

Then  he  took  his  departure. 


CHAPTER  LXXL 

A     RACE     FOR     LIFE. 

On  leaving  Hilda  Gualtier  went  out  to  the 
villa.  Before  his  departure  he  furnished  him- 
self with  a  new  disguise,  different  from  his  for- 
mer one,  and  one,  too,  which  he  thought  would 
be  better  adapted  to  his  purposes  of  concealment. 
A  gray  wig,  a  slouched  hat,  and  the  dress  of  a 
l)easant,  served  to  give  him  the  appearance  of  an 
aged  countryman,  while  a  staff"  which  he  held 
in  his  hand,  and  a  stoo])  in  his  shoulders,  height- 
ened the  disguise.  He  got  a  lift  on  a  wine-cart 
for  some  miles,  and  at  length  reached  a  place  not 
far  away  from  the  villa. 

The  villa  itself,  as  it  rose  up  from  among  siir- 


232 


THE  CKYPTOGKAM. 


rounding  trees,  on  a  spnr  of  the  Apennines,  was 
in  sigiit.  On  either  side  of  the  viilley  rose  tlie 
mountiiins.  Tlie  Arno,  as  it  wound  along,  up- 
proaclied  the  place  on  this  side  of  the  valley,  and 
tlie  mountains  were  not  more  than  half  a  mile 
distant,  though  on  the  other  the  j)laiii  was  sev- 
eral miles  in  width.  The  place  which  Uualtier 
had  chosen  seemed  to  him  to  be  quite  near 
enough  to  the  villa  for  observation,  and  far 
enough  distant  for  safety.  The  thought  of  a 
possible  encounter  with  Obed  Chute  was  ever 
present  in  his  mind,  and  this  time  he  determined 
to  guard  against  all  surprise,  and,  if  an  encount- 
er should  be  inevitable,  to  use  his  revolver  be- 
fore his  enemy  could  prevent  him.  His  pride 
and  his  manhood  both  urged  him  to  gain  some 
satisfaction  for  that  shame  on  both  whicli  he  had 
experienced. 

After  watcliing  one  afternoon  he  obtained  lodg- 
ing at  a  humble  farm-house,  and  when  the  next 
morning  came  he  rose  refreshed  by  sleep,  and 
encouraged  by  the  result  of  his  meditations.  He 
began  to  be  hopeful  about  final  success.  The 
scheme  which  Ililda  had  formed  seemed  to  be 
one  which  could  not  fail  by  any  possibility. 
Whatever  Hilda's  own  purposes  might  be,  to 
him  they  meant  one  thing  plainly,  and  that  was 
a  complete  and  irreparable  breach  between  her- 
self and  Lord  Chetwynde.  To  him  this  was  the 
first  desire  of  his  heart,  since  that  removed  the 
one  great  obstacle  that  lay  between  him  and  her. 
If  he  could  only  see  her  love  for  Lord  C^hotwynde 
transformed  to  vengeance,  and  find  them  ciianged 
from  their  present  attitude  of  friendship  to  one  of 
open  and  implacable  enmity,  then  his  own  hopes 
and  prospects  would  be  secured,  as  he  thought. 
Already  he  saw  the  beginning  of  this.  In  Hilda's 
manner,  in  her  tone,  in  her  looks,  he  marked  the 
fierce  anger  and  vengeful  feeling  which  had  now 
taVen  possession  of  her.  He  had  witnessed  also 
a  greater  consideration  for  himself,  arising  this 
time  not  out  of  coercion,  but  from  free-will.  Alf 
this  was  in  his  favor.  Whether  she  could  ever 
fully  succeed  in  her  thirst  for  vengeance  did  not 
much  matter.  Luleed,  it  was  better  for  him  that 
the  desire  should  not  be  carried  out,  but  that  she 
should  remain  unsatisfied,  for  then  Lord  Chet- 
wynde would  only  become  all  the  more  imteful 
to  her  every  day,  and  that  hate  would  serve  to 
give  to  him  fresh  opportunities  of  binding  her  to 
himself. 

All  these  thoughts  encouraged  him.  A  hope 
began  to  rise  within  his  heart  brighter  than  any 
which  he  had  ever  dared  to  entertain  before.  He 
found  himself  now  so  completely  identified  with 
Hilda's  dearest  plans  and  ])urposes,  and  so  much 
deeper  an  understanding  between  them,  that  it 
was  impossible  for  him  to  refrain  from  encour- 
aging his  hopes  to  the  utmost. 

Now,  as  he  sat  thore  watching,  his  fears  of 
danger  grew  weaker,  and  he  felt  emboldened  to 
venture  nearer,  so  as  to  fulfill  to  the  utmost  the 
wishes  of  Ililda.  Her  image  drove  out  from  his 
thoughts  the  frowning  face  of  Obed  Chute,  and 
the  white  form  of  that  phantom  whose  aspect 
had  once  crushed  him  into  lifelessness.  He 
thought  that  it  was  but  a  feeble  devotion  to  wait 
in  ambush  at  such  a  distance,  when,  by  ventur- 
ing nearer,  he  might  learn  much  more.  Hours 
passed,  and  there  was  no  sign  of  any  one  be- 
longing to  the  villa  either  goitig  or  coming,  and 
at  length  the  thought  that  was  in  his  raind  grew 


too  strong  to  be  resisted.  lie  determined  to 
venture  nearer — how  near  he  did  not  know ;  at 
any  rate,  ho  could  safely  venture  much  nearer 
than  thi  'I--'  he  not  his  disguise,  and  was  ho 
not  am  nd  when  he  met  Hilda  would  it 

not  bf  lu  him  if  he  could  only  tell  her 

that '  aid  so  far  away,  and  had  feiired  to 

ve  I er  ? 

led  off.     His  bowed  form,  white  face, 
garb,  and  the  atntY  which  supported  his 
u  Jy  steps,  he  thought  would  be  surely  an 

impenetrable  disguise.  True,  once  before  the 
keen  glance  of  Obed  Chute  had  penetrated  his 
disguise,  but  then  the  circumstances  under  which 
they  met  were  suspicious.  Now,  even  if  he 
should  chance  to  meet  him,  he  could  not  be  sus- 
pected. Who  would  suspect  an  aged  ]ieasant 
toiling  along  the  public  highway  ? 

He  gained  fresh  courage  at  every  step.  As 
he  drew  nearer  and  still  nearer  to  the  villa  he 
began  to  think  of  venturing  into  the  grounds 
once  more.  He  thought  that  if  he  did  so  he 
coidd  be  more  guarded,  and  steal  along  through 
the  trees,  beside  the  paths,  and  not  on  them. 
The  thought  became  a  stronger  temptation  to 
him  every  moment,  and  at  length,  as  he  ad- 
vanced nearer,  he  had  almost  decided  to  venture 
into  that  little  gate,  which  was  now  full  in  view. 
He  sat  down  by  the  road-side  and  looked  at  it. 
At  length  he  rose  and  walked  on,  having  made 
U])  his  mind  to  pass  through,  at  any  rate,  and  be 
guided  by  circumstances.  It  would  be  some- 
thing to  his  credit,  he  thought,  if  he  could  only 
toll  Hilda  that  he  had  been  in  those  grounds 
again. 

But  as  he  advanced  he  heard  the  sound  of  ap- 
proaching wheels.  Home  carriage  was  coming 
rapidly  down  the  road  toward  him,  and  he  ])aused 
for  a  moment,  as  the  idea  struck  him  that  jiossi- 
bly  the  tremendous  Obed  Chute  might  be  in  it. 
He  walked  on  very  slowly,  looking  keenly  ahead. 

8oon  the  carriage  came  into  view  from  behind 
a  bend  in  the  road.  A  thrill  jmssed  through 
Gualtierin  spite  of  himself.  He  gras|)ed  hisstatf 
in  his  right  hand,  and  plunging  his  left  into  his 
breast-pocket,  he  grasped  his  pistol.  Nearer  and 
nearer  the  carriage  came,  and  he  could  easily 
recognize  the  square  face,  broad  shoulders,  and 
stalwart  frame  of  Obed  Chute.  With  him  there 
was  a  lady,  whose  face  he  could  not  as  yet  recog- 
nize. And  now  there  arose  within  him  an  in- 
tense desire  to  see  the  face  of  this  lndy.  She 
was  beyond  a  doubt  the  very  one  of  whom  Lord 
Chetwynde  was  so  eager  and  so  constant  in 
his  pursuit.  Could  he  but  see  her  face  once  it 
would  be  a  great  gain,  for  he  could  recognize 
her  elsewhere,  and  thus  do  simiething  of  import- 
ance in  assisting  Hilda.  With  this  determina- 
tion in  his  mind  he  went  on,  and  bowing  down 
his  head  like  a  decrepit  old  man,  he  hobbled 
along,  leaning  on  his  staft',  but  at  the  same  time 
keeping  his  eyes  upturned  and  fixed  on  the  lady. 

The  carriage  came  nearer  and  nearer.  A 
strange  feeling  came  over  Gualtier — something 
like  an  anguish  of  fear  and  of  wonder.  At  last 
the  lady's  face  became  plainly  discernible.  That 
face!  White  it  was,  and  the  whiteness  was  in- 
tensified by  the  deep  hlnckness  of  the  hair,  while 
the  eyes  were  large  and  lustrous,  and  rested  full 
upon  him  in  something  hko  pity.  That  face! 
Was  this  another  vision  ? 

Great  God! 


:'3r 


THE  CRYPTOGRA\f. 


stop;     she   CKIKD,  TEAKING  with   one   hand   at  the   REINS, 


A  groan  burst  from  him  ns  this  face  thus  re- 
Tcaled  itself.  What  was  this?  What  did  it 
mean?  Was  this,  too,  a  phantom?  Was  it  a 
deceit  and  mocl<ery  of  his  senses?  Was  it  an 
eidolon  from  the  realms  of  death,  or  could  it  be 
an  actual  material  object — a  living  being  ?  Here 
was  one  whom  he  kneio  to  be  dead.  How  came 
she  here  ?  Or  by  what  marvel  could  any  one 
else  so  resemble  her  ?  Yet  it  was  not  a  resem- 
blance.    It  was  herself! 

His  brain  whirled.  All  thoughts  of  all  things 
else  faded  away  in  that  horror  and  in  that  sur- 
prise. Spell-bound  he  stood,  while  his  face  was 
upturned  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  on  the  lady. 

And  thus,  as  he  stood  rooted  to  the  spot,  mo- 
tionless and  staring,  the  carriage  came  whirling 
up  and  flashed  past  him.  Tliat  singular  figure, 
in  the  peasant  garb,  with  rigid  face,  and  with 
horror  in  his  eyes,  which  stared  like  the  eyes 
of  a  maniac,  attracted  the  look  of  the  lady.  At 
first  she  had  a  vague  idea  that  it  was  a  1  eggar, 
but  on  coming  closer  she  recognized  all.  As 
the  carriage  dashed  by  she  sprang  suddenly  to 
her  feet  with  a  )>iercing  scream.  She  snatched 
the  reins  convulsively  and  tore  at  them  in  a  sort 
of  frenzy. 

"It  is  he!     It  is  he!     Stop!"  she  cried, 


tearing  with  one  hand  at  the  reins  and  with 
the  other  gesticulating  vehemently  in  some  un- 
controllable passion.  "  It  is  he — it  is  Gualtier! 
Stop!  Quick!  Seize  him,  or  it  will  be  too 
late !" 

That  scream  and  those  words  roused  Obed. 
He,  too,  had  noticed  the  figure  by  the  road- 
side, but  he  had  only  thrown  a  careless  glance. 
The  words  of  Zillah,  however,  thrilled  through 
him.  He  pulled  in  the  horses  savagely.  They 
were  foaming  and  plunging. 

As  he  did  this  Zillah  dropped  the  reins,  and 
with  trembling  frame,  and  eyes  flashing  with  ex- 
citement, stood  staring  back, 

"There!  there!"  she  cried— "  there,  I  tell 
you,  is  Gualtier,  my  assassin !  He  is  disguised! 
I  know  him!  IC  is  Gualtier!  He  is  tra''king 
me  now !  Stop  him  !  Seize  him  !  Don't  let 
him  escape!     Make  haste!" 

These  words  burst  from  her  like  a  torrent,  and 
these,  with  her  wild  gesticulations,  showed  the 
intensity  of  her  excitement.  In  an  instant  Obed 
had  divined  the  whole  meaning  of  this.  A  man 
in  disguise  had  already  penetrated  even  into  his 
grounds.  This  he  thought  was  the  sanjo  man, 
in  another  disguise,  still  haunting  the  plate  and 
prowling  about  with  his  sinister  motive.     By 


234 


THE  CRYPTOGRANf. 


Zilluh's  wordu  he  saw  that  she  had  recognized 
this  man  as  that  very  Uualtier  after  whom  he 
had  been  searcliing  so  long,  and  whose  name  had 
been  so  constantly  in  his  mind.  And  now,  in 
the  same  instant,  he  saw  that  the  man  who  had 
once  sought  him  in  America,  and  wlio  had  re 
cently  ventured  into  Iiis  park,  was  the  very  one 
who  had  betrayed  Miss  Lorton — the  man  on 
whose  track  he  had  been  setting  the  police  of 
England,  France,  and  Italy. 

It  was  bnt  for  an  instant  that  this  thought 
filled  his  mind.  In  anotiier  instant  Obed  had 
finng  down  the  reins  and  sprung  into  the  road. 

Meanwhile  Gualtier  had  stood  motionless,  hor- 
ror-stricken, and  paralyzed.  But  the  scream  of 
Zillnh  and  her  frantic  words  had  shown  him  be- 
yond the  possibility  of  a  doubt  that  she  was  at 
any  rate  aiive,  and  more  than  this,  that  she  had 
recognized  him.  How  she  had  thus  come  to  life 
he  could  not  know,  nor  was  there  time  to  conject- 
ure. For  now  another  danger  was  impending, 
and,  in  the  per.son  of  Obed  ("hute,  was  rushing 
down  swiftly  u|}on  him.  At  the  sight  of  this  new 
peril  he  hesitated  not  a  moment,  but  snatched 
his  pistol,  took  aim,  and  fired  shot  after  shot. 
Rut  in  his  haste  and  agitation  a  correct  aim 
was  impossible.  He  fired  wildly.  Four  bullets, 
one  after  the  other,  whistled  through  the  air  past 
Obed's  head,  yet  he  still  ciime  on.  The  vision 
of  that  awful  face  rushing  down  upon  him  thus 
through  the  smoke-clouds,  with  vengeance  gleam- 
ing from  the  eyes,  and  the  resolute  mouth  close 
shut  in  implacable  sternness,  was  sufficient  to 
show  Gualtier  that  his  career  was  nearly  nm. 
He  had  a  sudden  feeling  thot  all  was  lost.  With 
a  wild  lea])  he  bounded  over  the  ditch  by  the  road- 
side, and  tore  over  the  fields  with  the  frantic  speed 
of  one  flying  from  death. 

But  the  avenger  was  at  his  heels. 

To  fly  from  vengeance  and  from  death  is  a 
thing  that  brings  a,  strong  motive  to  exertion, 
but  there  are  other  things  sometimes  which  may 
give  an  ecjual  impulse.  Gunltier  was  lithe,  sin- 
ewy, and  agile,  nimble  of  foot  loo,  aiid  inspired 
by  the  consciousness  of  danger ;  but  the  man  who 
pursued  him  was  one  whose  mighty  thews  and 
sinews  had  been  formed  under  the  shadows  of 
the  Alleglmnies,  and  trained  by  years  of  early 
experience  to  evory  exercise  of  strength.  This 
man  also  was  inspired  by  a  feeling  which  could 
contribute  a  motive  for  exertion  as  jiowerful  as 
the  fear  which  filled  the  heart  of  Gualtier,  and 
his  own  pride,  his  honor,  and  his  aft'eciion  for 
Zillali.  all  urged  him  on.  He  followed  fast,  and 
followed  faster.  Gualtier  had  a  long  start,  but 
Obed  steadily  gained,  until  at  lust  the  fugitive 
coulil  hear  the  footsteps  of  his  |)ursuer. 

Between  the  skirts  of  the  hills  and  the  Arno 
there  was  a  plain  about  two  miles  in  width.  On 
the  other  side  of  the  river  the  fields  spread  away 
again  for  a  wider  extent,  interspersed  xvith  groves 
and  vineyards.  The  Arno  was  full,  and  flowing 
rapidly.  Here,  then,  seemed  to  be  to  the  fugitive 
the  last  chance  for  escape — here,  in  that  swift- 
flowing  river.  Gualtier  coidd  swim  admirably. 
Toward  this  river  he  turned  his  flying  steps, 
thinking  that  his  pursuer  might  not  be  able  to 
follow,  and  hoping  for  .s«fety  here.  Yet  all  the 
time  he  expected  to  hear  a  pistol-shot,  for  Obed 
had  already  told  him,  in  that  memorable  meeting 
in  the  park,  that  he  carried  a  revolver.  That  ho 
did  not  use  it  now  seemed  to  Gualtier  to  show 


plainly  that  he  must  have  loft  it  behind.  As  for 
Obed,  he  neither  fired  a  pistol-shot  nor  threater  d 
to  fire  one.  He  did  not  even  draw  his  revol.  ■ 
from  his  pocket.  He  simply  ran  as  fast  as  he 
could  after  the  fugitive. 

That  fugitive,  in  order  to  gain  the  river,  was 
compelled  to  run  obliquely,  and  thus  he  gave  an 
additional  advantage  to  his  pursuer,  who  tried 
to  head  him  off,  and  thus  was  able  to  gain  on 
him  by  some  additional  paces.  But  to  Gualtier 
that  river-bank  was  now  the  place  of  salvation, 
and  that  was  at  any  rate  a  last  resort.  Besides 
this,  his  pistol  still  was  in  his  hand,  and  in  it 
there  still  remained  two  shots,  which  might  yet 
avail  him  at  the  last  moment.  Onward,  then, 
he  bounded  with  frantic  exertions  while  these 
thoughts  sped  through  his  mind.  But,  mingled 
with  these,  there  came  strange  floating  thoughts 
of  that  figure  in  the  carriage  —  that  one  who 
had  met  with  a  wondrous  resurrection  from 
the  death  to  which  he  had  sent  her,  and  who 
was  now  looking  on  at  bis  flight,  and  the  pur- 
suit of  her  avenger.  All  these  various  thoughts 
swept  confusedly  through  his  brain  in  the  mad- 
ness of  that  hour ;  for  thus  it  is  that  often,  when 
death  seems  to  impend,  the  mind  becomes  en- 
dowed with  colossal  powers,  and  all  the  events 
of  ft  stormy  and  agitated  life  can  be  crowded 
into  one  moment.  Now,  as  Giudtier  fled,  and 
as  he  contrived  his  plan  of  escape  by  the  river, 
there  were  in  his  nr.ind,  parallel  with  these 
thoughts,  others  of  equal  power — thoughts  of 
that  fair  young  girl  whom  he  had  cast  adrift  in 
a  sinking  ship  on  the  wide  midnight  .sea.  Saved 
she  had  been,  beyond  a  doubt,  for  there  she 
was,  with  her  eyes  fixed  on  him  in  his  agony. 
Avenged  she  would  be  also,  unless  he  could 
escape  that  terrible  pursuer  who  now  every  mo- 
ment came  faster  and  faster  behind. 
•  Avenged  ?  No,  not  yet.  Still  there  was  a 
chance.  The  river  flowed  near  with  its  full 
stream.  The  opposite  shores  seemed  to  invite 
him ;  the  trees  and  groves  and  vineyards  there 
seemed  to  beckon  him  onward.  At  last  his  feet 
were  on  the  bank.  One  plunge,  he  thought,  and 
he  would  be  safe.  But  for  one  instant  he  delayed 
that  plunge.  There  were  other  desires  in  his 
heart  than  that  of  safety — there  was  the  desire 
for  vengeance.  StHl  there  was  a  chance  lefl. 
His  pistol  was  in  his  hand — it  yet  held  two 
shots.  In  these  he  might  find  both  safety  and 
vengeance. 

Suddenly  he  turned  as  he  reached  the  bank, 
and  instantaneously  he  discharged  the  last  shots 
of  the  pistol  at  his  pursuer.  Then  he  plunged 
headlong  into  the  river. 

Another  pursuer,  even  if  he  had  not  fallen, 
might  have  faltered  at  all  these  pistol-shots. 
Not  so  Obed.  To  him  the  revolver  was  a  fa- 
miliar thing — a  toy,  in  fact,  the  sport  of  oil  his 
life.  Often  before  had  pistol  -  shots  whistled 
about  his  head,  and  under  circumstances  far 
more  dangerous  than  this.  Obed's  life  had 
been  a  varied  one,  and  he  eould  tell  numy 
strange  tales  of  adventures  in  the  western  parts 
of  America — that  country  where  civilized  man 
has  encountered,  and  can  still  encounter,  those 
tribes  which  are  his  most  formidable  foes.  If 
at  that  moment  Obed  could  have  bared  his 
mighty  body  to  plunge  into  the  Arno,  he  could 
have  exhibited  a  vast  number  of  old  scars  from 
wounds  which  had  been  received  in  Kansas,  in 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


2H.-. 


CKlifornia,  and  in  Afexico.  Rut  Ohcd  liad  not 
time  to  biire  his  mighty  liody.  As  tliose  Iftst 
pistol' sliots  flashed  before  liini  he  had  not  time 
even  to  wink  liis  eyes,  hut  rusliing  on  with  un- 
abated vi>;()r,  he  reached  the  river's  bank,  and 
in  a  moment  had  phinged  in  after  CJiialtier. 

The  fiixitive  heard  that  jdtinge.  He  licard 
heiiind  him  the  (juick  strokes  of  ii  strong  swim- 
mer, and  then  he  knew  and  felt  that  all  was  lost. 
Uljoii  that  last  chance  he  had  staked  every  thing, 
and  that  last  chance  had  failed  utterly.  This 
man  who  had  insulted  him,  bullied  him,  and 
overpowered  him — this  man  who  had  been  im- 
pervious to  his  shots  on  the  road  and  on  the 
river-bank — this  man  who  had  gained  on  him 
steadily  in  that  desperate  race  for  life  which  he 
had  nui — this  demon  of  a  man  was  now  gaining 
on  him  in  the  water  also !  If  his  pursuer  had 
stood  on  the  bank  and  had  shot  him,  he  might 
have  received  the  wound  and  sank  to  death  with- 
out a  murmur.  But  to  be  followed  so,  to  be 
caught,  to  be  dragged  back — this  was  the  terror 
and  the  shame.  Tiiis  stimulated  him  to  fiercer 
exertions.  Despair  itself  gave  a  kind  of  mad- 
ness to  his  efforts.  But  terror  and  shame  and 
despair  itself  could  not  snatch  him  from  the 
grasp  of  his  remorseless  pursuer.  Nearer  and 
nearer  that  j)ursuer  came ;  more  and  more  des- 
perate grew  Gualtier's  efforts.  In  vain.  As  he 
struck  out  with  almost  superhuman  exertions  he 
suddenly  felt  his  foot  grasped  by  a  resistless 
hand.  All  was  over.  That  despair  which  a 
moment  before  had  intensified  his  efforts  now 
relaxed  his  strengtii.  He  felt  himself  dragged 
back  to  the  shore  from  which  he  had  been  fly- 
ing. He  was  lost!  He  struggled  no  longer  to 
escape,  but  only  to  keep  his  head  al)ove  water, 
from  an  instinct  of  self-preservation.  And  in 
that  anguish  of  fear  and  despair  that  now  settled 
upon  his  soul  he  had  a  vague  terror  that  on  the 
moment  of  landing  he  would  he  annihilated. 

But,  instead  of  that,  he  felt  himself  raised  to 
his  feet,  and  the  strong  grasp  relaxed  its  hold. 
He  looked  iij)  at  his  captor,  and  saw  him  stand- 
ing before  him  regarding  him  with  a  grim  smile. 

"So  you're  theCJualtier,  are  you,"  .said  Obed, 
"of  whose  exph)its  I  have  heard  so  much? 
You're  rather  a  small  parcel,  I  should  say,  but 
you've  done  con-siderable  mischief,  somehow." 

(iiialtier  did  not  know  what  to  make  of  this, 
but  thought  it  only  a  little  preliminary  play, 
after  which  he  would  be  flung  headlong  into  the 
river  by  some  catapultian  kick. 

"See  here,"  said  Obed;  "a  fellow  that  pre- 
tends to  carry  a  revolver  ought  to  be  ashamed 
of  himself  for  firing  such  shots  as  you  did.  You 
infernal  fool,  you !  you've  gone  and  lost  six  of 
the  best  chances  any  man  ever  had.  and  not  one 
of  them  '11  ever  come  again.  What  is  worse, 
you've  gone  and  disgraced  America  in  the  per- 
son of  her  great  national  and  original  weapon — 
the  everlasting  revolver.  Don't  you  feel  like  a 
fool  ?     You  know  you  do !" 

At  this  extraordinary  address  Gualtier  was,  if 
possil)le,  still  more  bewildered. 

"  You  deserved  to  be  caught,''  continued  Obed, 
"  for  you  tempted  Providence.  Providence  gave 
you  the  most  glorious  chance  I  ever  saw  in  all 
my  born  days.  After  using  up  your  chance  with 
the  revolver  you  had  this  here  boundless  plain  to 
run  upon.  Why,  I've  dodged  a  hundred  Indians 
in  my  day  with  less  of  a  chance,  and  all  the  odds 


against  mo,  for  thev  were  firing  nt  me.  But  you 
couldn't  be  shot  down,  for  I  didn't  happen  to 
feel  inclined  to  use  my  revolver.  It  didn't  seem 
fair."  And  saying  this,  Obed  tenderly  drew  out 
his  revolver  from  his  breast-pocket,  and  exhibit- 
ed it  in  a  loving  way  to  the  astouiuled  Gualtier. 
"  I  saw,"  ho  continued,  "  that  it  would  he  a  most 
unscientific  waste  of  lead.  The  very  first  shot 
you  find  showed  that  you  were  utterly  unac- 
quainted with  our  American  invention,  and  the 
next  was  as  bad.  Why,  out  of  the  whole  six 
only  one  hit  me.     See  here." 

And  Obed  held  up  his  left  hand.  The  last 
joint  of  the  middle  finger  had  been  shot  off,  and 
blood  was  still  flowing. 

Gualtier  looked  at  this  with  fresh  amazement. 

"Why,"  said  Obed,  "if  I'd  had  one-tenth 
part  of  your  chances,  and  had  been  in  your 
place,  I'd  have  got  off.  With  such  a  start  I'd 
engage  to  escape  from  a  dozen  men.  I'd  drop 
six  with  the  pistol,  and  dodge  the  other  six.  Sen 
here.  Do  you  see  that  bit  of  woods  ?''  And 
taking  Gualtier's  arm,  he  pointed  to  a  clump  of 
trees  that  rose  like  an  island  from  the  plain. 
"Do  you  see  thaf:*" 

Gualtier  said  nothing. 

"  Well,  I'll  tel!  you  what  you'd  ought  to  do. 
You'd  ouglit  to  have  made  straight  for  that  in  a 
bee-line;  then  dodged  behind  it.  Perhaps  I'd 
have  followed ;  but  then  you  could  have  crossed 
to  the  other  side,  got  out  of  siglit,  and  while  I 
was  looking  for  you,  off  you'd  get  to  the  river. 
If  I'd  have  gone  on  the  opposite  side  you  couhl 
have  cut  off  among  the  mountains.  A  man," 
concluded  Obed,  in  a  tone  of  intense  solemnity — 
"a  man  that  coidd  throw  away  such  a  chance 
as  that  has  tempted  Providence,  and  don't  deserve 
any  thing.     Young  man,  you're  a  gone  sucker ! " 

Gualtier  heard  all  this,  and  understood  this 
eccentric  but  grim  address.  He  felt  that  it  was 
all  over  with  him.  He  had  one  desperate  thought 
of  snatching  at  the  revolver,  which  Olicd  still  held 
in  his  hand  with  apparent  carelessness ;  but  he 
saw  that  such  an  attempt  would  lie  madness.  The 
very  instant  that  he  had  looked  Obed  had  no- 
ticed it,  and  understood  it. 

He  gave  a  low  laugh. 

"You'd  better  not,"  said  he,  and  then  mo- 
tioned him  toward  the  carriage.  Gaaltier  walk- 
ed on  in  silence.  Obed  did  not  deign  to  touch  his 
prisoner,  nor  did  Gualtier  dare  to  nuike  any  ef- 
fort to  escape.  There  was  no  chance  now,  since 
that  other  chance  had  failed ;  and,  besides,  the 
sight  of  Obed's  revolver  was  itself  sufificient  to 
prevent  such  an  attempt. 

"You've  showed  considerable  sense  in  walk- 
ing quietly  along,"  said  Obed,  as  they  came  near 
to  the  carriage.  "  If  you'd  tried  to  run  it  would 
have  been  worse  for  you.  You'd  have  lost  a 
limb,  sure." 

Then  Obed  stopped,  and  forced  him  to  look  at 
the  ground  which  they  had  gone  over,  and  show- 
ed what  excellent  chances  he  had  thrown  away. 

On  reaching  the  carriage  Zillah  was  calmer, 
though  still  greatly  excited.  She  s«id  nothing 
to  Guahier,  nor  did  the  latter  venture  to  look  at 
her.  In  the  flight  his  wig  and  hat  had  fallen  off, 
so  that  now  his  hated  face  was  distinctly  visible. 

Obed  put  his  hand  for  a  moment  on  Gualtier's 
shoulder. 

"  Is  this  the  man?"  he  asked.  .  , 

Zillah  bowed. 


.\J. 


236 


THE  CRYl'TOOUAM. 


On  this  Obed  innilo  liis  prisoner  got  on  the 
front  sent  of  tbo  carriiigo,  und  drove  ruiiiilly  bacii 
to  tho  vilhi. 


ClIAl'TKU  LXXII. 

IN   PUI80N. 

GrAt.TiKK  was  driven  back  to  tbo  villa,  quite 
in  ignoraiire  ns  to  liis  final  destiniilion.  lie  was 
on  the  front  seat,  not  i)ound  at  all,  aiul  there  was 
one  moment  when  there  i^eemed  a  Inst  chance  of 
escape.  It  was  at  a  time  when  Zilliih  had  no- 
ticed Obed's  wonnd,  and  began  to  (|uesiion  him 
about  it  with  eager  sympathy,  while  Obed  tried  to 
assure  her  that  it  was  nothing.  Hut  Zillab  woidd 
not  be  satisfied.  She  insisted  on  binding  it  up. 
She  took  her  handkerchief,  and,  thouKli  she  knew 
no  more  about  such  things  than  a  child,  prepared 
to  do  what  she  could.  Obed  soon  saw  her  ig- 
norance, and  proceeded  to  give  her  tlirections. 
At  last  he  took  her  handkerchief  and  tore  it  into 
several  strips,  with  a  laughing  promise  to  tear  his 
up  some  day  for  her.  At  this  moment  he  was 
((uite  intent  on  Zillah,  and  she  was  absorbed  in 
her  work.  It  seemed  to  Gualtier  that  he  was 
forgotten.  The  carriage,  also,  was  ascending 
the  hill.  On  each  side  were  lofty  trees  over- 
shadowing it,  while  beyond  them  liiy  a  deep  for- 
est. All  this  Gualtier  saw.  Here  was  a  last 
chance.  Now  or  never  might  ho  escape.  He 
watched  for  an  instant.  Obed  was  showing  Zil- 
lah how  to  make  the  knot,  when  stiddeidy,  with 
a  quick  leap,  (Jualtier  s])rang  from  the  carriage 
seat  out  iiUo  the  road.  Ho  stumbled  and  fell' 
forward  as  his  feet  touched  the  road,  but  in  an 
instant  he  recovered  himself.  The  road-side  was 
a  steep  bank,  which  ascended  before  liim,  covered 
with  forests.  Beyond  this  were  tho  wild  woods, 
with  rocks  and  underbrush.  If  he  could  but  get 
there  he  might  find  a  refuge.  Thither  he  fled  with 
frantic  haste.  He  rushed  up  the  steep  ascent. 
And  in  among  the  trees.  For  some  distance  tho 
wood  was  open,  and  tho  trees  rose  on  high  at 
wide  distances  with  no  underbrush.  Beyond 
that  there  was  a  denser  growth.  Through  this  he 
ran,  stimulated  by  this  new  chance  for  life,  and 
wishing  that  ho  had  once  again  that  revolver 
whose  shots  he  bad  wasted. 

As  he  lea])ed  from  the  carnage  Zillah  had  given 
ft  loud  cry,  and  in  another  moment  Obed  had  di- 
vined tho  cause  and  had  sprung  out  in  pursuit. 
Gualtior's  start  did  not  amount  to  more  than  a 
dozen  paces.  Obed  also  was  armed.  •  His  chance 
of  escape  was  therefore  small  indeed.  Small  as 
it  was,  however,  it  was  enough  to  stimulate  him, 
and  he  hurried  onward,  hearing  at  every  pace 
the  step  of  his  pursuer.  At  length  he  reached 
the  thicker  part  of  the  wood.  He  tin-ned  and 
doubled  here  like  a  fo'^  He  did  not  know  where 
to  go,  but  sought  to  gain  some  slight  advantage. 
He  thought  that  he  might  find  some  place  where 
for  a  few  moments  he  might  baffle  his  pursuer. 
This  was  the  hope  that  now  remained.  Turning 
and  doubling,  therefore,  and  'winding,  he  con- 
tinued his  flight :  but  tho  pursuer  still  maintain- 
ed his  pursuit,  and  as  yet  Gualtier  had  gained 
no  advantage.  In  fact,  he  had  lost  ground  grad- 
ually, and  the  underbrush  had  not  delayed  the 
])rogress  of  Obed.  Gualtier  felt  this,  but  still 
strove  to  attain  his  purpose. 

At  last  he  saw  a  place  where  there  was  a  steep 


precipice,  thickly  wooded  up  to  its  very  margin 
and  then  descending  abruptly.  Toward  this  he 
fled,  thinking  that  some  place;  might  show  itsolf 
where  be  might  descend,  and  where  his  |)nrsucr 
might  fear  to  follow.  He  bounded  aliuig  in  a 
winding  direction,  trying  to  conceal  his  purpo.ie. 
At  length  ho  reached  the  edge  of  tho  precipice. 
At  the  point  to  which  he  had  come  the  descent 
was  abrupt,  but  ledges  jutted  out  frinn  the  side 
of  the  cliff,  and  seemed  to  afford  a  cliauce  for  a 
descent  to  one  who  was  bold  enough  to  venture. 
There  was  no  time  for  exainiiuitioii  ur  fur  hesi- 
tation. Swiftly  Gualtier  ran  on  till  he  reached 
what  seemed  a  favorable  ]ilace,  and  then,  throw- 
ing himself  over,  his  feet  caught  a  ]M'ojecting 
ledge,  and  he  reached  down  his  hand  to  secure  a 
grasp  of  a  rock,  so  as  to  let  himself  down  further. 
He  looked  down  hurriedly  so  as  to  see  the  rock 
which  he  wished  to  grasji,  when  at  that  very  in- 
stant his  arm  was  seized,  and  a  low,  stern  voice 
said: 

"No  go!  Up  with  you,  you  scoundrel!  and 
thank  the  Lord  I  don't  blow  your  brains  out." 

He  was  dragged  up,  fliuig  on  the  groimd,  and 
his  hands  bound  tightly  bcliind  bini  with  Obed's 
handkerchief.  After  this  be  was  dragged  back 
to  tbo  carriage. 

So  failed  his  last  hope. 

"  You  couldn't  have  done  it,"  said  Obed.  "  I 
saw  it  all  the  time.  I  could  have  shot  you  fifty 
times,  but,  as  I  knew  I  was  going  to  catch  you,  I 
didn't  touch  my  j)istol.  I  don't  blame  you  for 
making  the  trial.  I'd  have  done  the  same.  But 
y<ni  see- now  that  you  have  got  your  hands  tied 
up  by  way  of  punishment.  You  can't  say  but 
that  I've  treated  yon  on  the  square,  any  bow." 

Gualtier  said  nothing,  but  was  taken  back  and 
put  in  the  carriage  once  more.  Zillah  saw  that 
his  hands  were  tied,  and  felt  more  secure  as  to 
the  result  of  this  second  capture. 

The  can  iago  now  soon  reached  the  villa.  Here 
Obed  handed  out  Zillah,  and  gave  orders  to  the 
servants  to  make  ready  tho  brougham.  He  in- 
formed Zillah  that  ho  himself  intondcd  to  take 
Gualtier  to  the  city  and  hand  him  over  to  the 
authorities  ;  and  that  she  might  make  her  mind 
easy  as  to  bis  capture  this  time,  for  he  would  not 
allow  even  an  attempt  at  an  escape  again. 

During  these  prei>arations  Obed  stood  waiting 
near  the  carriage,  while  Gualtier  sat  there  with 
his  hands  bound.  Gladly  would  ho  have  availed 
himself  of  any  other  chance,  however  des])erate, 
but  there  was  none.  His  hands  were  bound,  his 
enemy  was  watchful  and  armed.  Under  such 
circumstances  there  remained  no  hope.  His  last 
attemi)t  had  been  made  boldly  and  vigorously,  but 
it  bad  failed.     So  he  gave  himself  up  to  despair. 

The  brougham  was  soon  ready.  Obed  put 
Gualtier  inside  and  got  in  himself  after  him. 
Then  they  drove  away.  Lord  Chetwynde  was 
expected  that  afternoon,  and  he  might  meet  him 
on  the  road.  He  had  made  up  his  mind,  how- 
ever, not  to  recognize  him,  Init  to  let  him  learn 
the  great  event  from  Zillah  hei-self.  After  gi\'ing 
information  to  his  sister  as  to  the  time  at  which 
ho  exjiected  to  be  back  he  drove  ofi';  and  soon 
the  brougham  with  its  occupants  was  moving 
swiftly  onward  out  of  the  villa  park,  down  the 
descending  road,  and  on  toward  Florence. 

Obed  rode  inside  along  with  Gualtier  all  the 
way.  During  that  drive  bis  mind  found  full 
occupation  for  itself.     Tho  discovery  and  the 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


237 


in- 
take 

the 
kind 

not 


Inch 

soon 

•ving 

the 

I  the 
full 
the 


rapturct  of  thin  man  mndc  n  RttirtlhiK  rcvcliition 
of  sevonij  most  iinpurtunt  yet  utterly  iiiconipre- 
hensilile  factK. 

First,  lie  recognized  in  hi«  prisoner  the  man 
who  had  oncd  visited  liiin  in  New  York  for  the 
purpose  of  gaining  information  ahout  Lady  C'hut- 
wynde.  That  information  he  had  refused  to 
give  for  certain  reasons  of  his  own,  and  had 
very  iinccrcmuniously  dismissed  the  man  that 
hud  sought  it. 

.Secondly,  this  was  the  same  man  who  in  dis- 
guise hud  penetrated  into  his  villa  with  all  the 
air  and  manner  of  a  spy,  and  who,  hy  thus  fol- 
lowing him,  showed  that  he  must  have  been  on 
his  track  for  a  long  time. 

Thirdly,  this  very  man  had  turned  out  to  bo 
the  long-sought  (iualtier — the  one  who  had  be- 
trayed Aliss  Lorton  to  a  death  from  which  she 
had  only  been  saved  by  a  mere  accident.  This 
was  the  nan  who  had  won  the  afliBctions  of  Miss 
Lofton's  friend,  Hilda,  who  had  induced  her  to 
share  bis  villainy  and  his  crime ;  the  man  who 
had  for  so  long  a  time  baffled  the  utmost  efforts 
of  the  chief  Einopean  police,  yet  who  had  at 
last  been  captured  by  himself. 

Now  about  this  man  there  were  circumstances 
which  to  Obed  were  utterly  incomprehensible. 

It  was  conceivable  that  the  man  who  had 
sought  him  in  New  York  should  track  him  to 
Florence.  He  might  have  an  interest  in  this 
affair  of  Lady  Chetwynde  deep  enough  to  insjare 
so  pertinacious  a  search,  so  that  the  difficidty 
did  not  consist  in  this.  The  true  difficulty  lay 
in  the  fact  that  this  man  who  had  come  to  him 
first  as  the  inquirer  after  Lady  Chetwynde  should 
now  turn  out  to  be  the  betrayer  of  Miss  Lorton. 
And  this  made  his  present  purpose  the  more  nn- 
intelligilile.  What  was  it  that  had  brought 
him  across  Obed's  path  ?  Was  he  still  seeking 
after  information  about  Lady  Chetwynde?  or, 
rather,  was  he  seeking  to  renew  his  former  at- 
tempt against  Miss  Lorton  ?  To  this  latter  sup- 
position Obed  felt  himself  drawn.  It  seemed  to 
him  most  probable  that  Gnaltier  had  somehow 
found  out  about  the  rescue  of  Zillah,  and  was 
now  tracking  her  with  the  intention  of  consum- 
mating his  work.  This  only  coidd  account  for 
his  twofold  disguise,  and  his  persistence  in  com- 
ing toward  the  villa  after  the  punishr>ent  and  the 
warning  which  he  had  once  received.  To  think 
that  he  should  run  such  a  risk  in  order  to  prose- 
cute his  intpiiry  after  Lady  Chetwynde  was  ab- 
surd ;  but  to  suppose  that  he  did  it  from  certain 
designs  on  Miss  Lorton  seemed  the  most  natural 
thing  in  the  world  for  a  villain  in  his  position. 

But  behind  all  this  there  was  something  more ; 
and  this  became  to  Obed  the  most  difficult  prob- 
lem. It  was  easy  to  conjecture  the  present 
motive  of  this  Gualtier — the  motive  which  had 
drawn  him  out  to  the  villa,  to  track  them,  to 
spy  them,  and  to  hover  about  the  place ;  but 
there  was  another  thing  to  which  it  was  not  so 
easy  to  give  an  answer.  It  was  the  startling 
fact  of  the  identity  between  the  man  who  had 
once  come  to  him  in  order  to  investigate  about 
Lady  Chetwynde  and  the  one  who  had  betrayed 
Miss  Lorton.  How  did  it  happen  that  the  same 
man  should  have  taken  part  in  each  ?  What 
should  have  led  him  to  America  for  the  pur- 
pose of  questioning  him  about  that  long-forgotten 
tragedy,  and  afterwanl  have  made  him  the  assas- 
sin which  he  was?   It  seemed  as  though  this  Gual- 


tier was  associated  with  the  two  chief  tragedies 
of  Obed's  life,  for  this  of  Miss  Lorton  was  cer- 
tainly not  inferior  in  its  effect  upon  his  feelings 
to  that  old  one  of  Lady  Chetwynde.  Yet  bow 
was  it  that  ho  had  become  thus  associated  with  two 
such  events  as  these  ?  Uy  what  strange  fatality 
had  he  and  Obed  thus  found  a  common  ground 
of  interest  in  one  another — a  grouiul  where  the 
one  was  the  assailant  and  betrayer,  the  other  the 
savior  and  defender? 

Such  thoughts  as  those  perplexed  Obed,  and 
he  could  not  find  an  answer  to  them.  An  an- 
swer might  certainly  have  been  given  by  the 
man  himself  at  his  side,  but  Obed  did  not  deign 
to  question  him ;  for,  somehow,  he  felt  that  at 
the  bottom  of  all  this  lay  that  strange  secret 
which  Miss  Lorton  had  so  stiidlouslv  preserved. 
I'art  of  it  she  had  revealed,  but  only  part,  and 
that,  too,  in  such  general  outlines  that  any  dis- 
covery of  the  rest  was  impossible.  Mad  Obed 
questioned  (Jualtier  be  might  have  discovered 
the  truth ;  that  is,  if  (iualtier  would  have  an- 
swered bis  questions,  which,  of  Ciuirsc,  he  would 
not  have  done.  Hut  Obed  did  not  even  try  him. 
He  asked  notbii  g  and  said  nothing  during  all 
that  long  drive.  Ho  saw  that  there  was  a  secret, 
and  he  thonj^ht  that  if  Miss  Lorton  chose  to  keep 
it  he  would  not  seek  to  find  it  out.  Ho  would 
rither  leave  it  to  her  to  reveal ;  and  if  she  did 
not  choose  to  reveal  it,  then  he  wotdd  not  care 
to  know  it.  She  was  the  oidy  one  who  could 
explain  this  away,  and  he  thought  that  it  would 
be,  in  some  sort,  an  act  of  disloyalty  to  make 
any  investigations  on  his  own  account  with  ref- 
eri^nco  to  her  private  affairs.  I'erhaps  in  this 
he  might  have  been  wrong ;  perhaps  he  might 
have  strained  too  much  his  scruples,  and  yiehl- 
ed  to  a  sense  of  honor  which  was  too  high 
wrnight;  yet,  at  the  same  time,  such  was  his 
feeling,  and  be  could  not  help  it ;  and,  after  all, 
it  was  a  noble  feeling,  which  took  its  rise  out  of 
ono  of  the  purest  and  most  chivalrous  feelings 
of  the  heart. 

While  Obed  was  thus  silent,  thoughtful,  and 
preoccupied,  Gualtier  was  equally  so,  and  at  the 
same  time  there  was  a  deep  anxiety  in  his  heart, 
to  which  the  other  was  a  stranger.  To  him,  at 
that  moment,  situated  as  he  was — a  prisoner,  un- 
der such  circumstances,  and  in  company  with 
his  watchful,  grim,  and  relentless  captor — there 
were  many  thoughts,  all  of  which  were  bitter 
enough,  and  full  of  the  darkest  forebodings  for 
the  future.  He,  too,  had  made  discoveries  on 
that  eventful  day  far  darker,  far  more  fearful, 
far  more  weighty,  and  far  more  terrible  than 
any  which  Obed  coidd  have  made — discoveries 
which  filled  him  with  horror  and  alarm  for  him- 
self, and  for  another  who  was  dearer  than  him- 
self. The  first  of  these  was  the  great,  the  inex- 
plicable fact  that  Zillah  was  really  and  truly 
alive.  This  at  once  accounted  for  the  ]ihantom 
which  had  appeared  and  stricken  terror  to  him 
and  to  Hilda.  Alive,  but  how?  Had  he  not 
himself  made  assurance  doubly  sure?  had  he 
not  with  his  own  hands  scuttled  that  schooner 
in  which  she  was  ?  had  he  not  found  her  asleep 
in  her  cabin  as  he  prepared  to  leave?  had  lie 
not  felt  the  water  close  up  to  the  deck  before  he 
left  the  sinking  yacht  ?  had  he  not  been  in  that 
boat  on  the  dark  midnight  sea  for  a  long  time 
before  the  mutinous  crew  would  consent  to  row 
away,  so  near  to  the  vessel  that  any  noise  wonld 


/Kh 


238 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


I 


! 


have  necessarily  come  to  his  ears?  He  had. 
How,  tlieii,  was  this  ?  That  yacht  mmt  have  gone 
down,  iind  she  iinist  have  gone  down  with  it — 
drowned  in  her  cabin,  suffocated  there  by  the 
waters,  witiiout  power  to  make  one  cry.  So  it 
must  have  been ;  but  still  here  she  was,  alive, 
strong,  vengeful.  It  could  not  be  a  case  of  re- 
semblance ;  for  this  woman  had  penetrated  his 
disguise,  had  recognized  him,  and  at  the  recog- 
nition had  started  to  her  feet  with  wild  excla- 
mations, hounding  on  her  companion  to  pursuit. 

But  in  addition  to  this  there  was  something 
still  more  strange.  However  she  may  have  <  - 
caped — as  she  must  have  done — by  what  wond>  r- 
ful  concurrence  of  circumstances  had  she  met 
with  Obed  (.'hufe,  and  entered  into  this  close 
friendship  with  him?  That  man  was  familiar 
with  a  dark  past,  to  which  she  was  related  in 
some  strange  way.  How  was  it,  then,  that  of 
all  men  in  the  world,  this  one  had  become  her 
friend  and  protector? 

Rut,  even  so,  there  was  another  mystery,  so 
strange,  so  dark,  so  inexplicable,  that  the  others 
seemed  as  nothing.  For  he  had  discovered  in 
her  the  one  whom  Lord  Chetwynde  was  seeking 
with  such  zeal,  and  such  passion,  and  such  un- 
failing constancy.  How  was  it  that  Lord  Chet- 
wynde had  found  her,  and  where  had  he  found 
her  ?  and  if  he  had  found  her,  how  had  he  known 
her?  Was  he  not  living  with  Hilda  on  terms  at 
least  of  respect,  and  acting  toward  her  as  though 
he  believed  her  to  be  his  wife  ?  What  could  be 
the  cause  that  had  brought  him  into  connection 
with  Obeil  ("hute?  Obed  Chute  had  been  the 
confidant  of  Lady  Chetwynde,  mid  knew  the 
story  of  her  shame.  How  was  it  that  the  son  of 
such  a  mother  could  associate  so  habitually  with 
the  ni'in  who  so  well  knew  the  history  of  that 
mother  ?  If  he  were  not  acquainted  with  his  mo- 
ther's history  himself,  how  could  he  have  found 
out  Obed  Chute  for  his  friend  ?  and  if  he  were 
acquainted  with  it,  how  could  he  have  tolerated 
him  as  such?  From  either  point  of  view  the 
(juestion  vas  unanswerable,  and  the  problem  in- 
soluble. Yet  the  fact  remained  that  Lord  Chet- 
wynde was  in  the  habit  of  making  constant  visits 
to  the  house  of  the  man,  the  very  man,  to  whom 
the  history  of  Lord  Chetwynde's  mother  was 
known  as  a  story  of  shame,  and  who  himself  had 
been  the  chief  agent  in  helping  her,  as  it  ap- 
peared, from  the  ruin  to  which  she  had  flung 
herself. 

Then,  again,  there  arose  the  question  as  to  what 
might  be  the  position  of  Zillah.  How  did  she 
happen  to  bwliving  with  Obed  Chute?  In  what 
way  was  she  living?  How  did  it  happen  that 
Lord  Chetwynde  was  carrying  on  a  series  of 
clandestine  visits  to  a  woman  who  was  his  own 
wife  ?  Hilda's  story  of  that  passionate  interview 
in  the  kiosk  at  the  Villa  Rinalci  was  now  intel- 
ligible in  one  sense.  It  was  no  phantom  that 
had  terrified  her,  but  the  actual  form  of  the  liv- 
ing Zillah  herself.  Yet,  making  allowance  for 
this,  it  became  more  unintelligible  than  ever. 
For  what  could  have  been  tlie  meaning  of  that 
scene?  If  Zillah  were  alive  and  his  wife,  why 
should  Lord  Chetwynde  arrange  so  elaborately 
this  interview  in  the  kiosk?  why  should  he  be  at 
once  so  passionate  and  so  despairing?  why  should 
he  vow  his  vows  of  eternal  love,  and  at  the  same 
time  bid  her  an  eternal  farewell  ?  What  was  the 
meaning  of  hi;  inform;ition  abont  that  " other 


whom  he  hated  worse  than  death,"  which  Hilda 
had  felt  like  a  stroke  of  death  ?  And  why  sliould 
Lord  Chetwynde  remain  with  his  false  wife, 
whom  he  hated,  while  his  true  wife,  whom  he 
loved,  was  so  near  ?  Why,  in  the  name  of  1  leav- 
en, should  he  treat  the  one  with  even  civility,  and 
only  visit  the  other  by  means  of  claiulestine 
meetings  and  stolen  interviews?  Could  such 
questions  be  answered  at  all?  Were  they  not 
all  mad  togethei,  or  were  he  and  Hilda  madder 
than  these  ?  What  could  be  the  solution  of  these 
insoluble  ])roblems  ? 

Such  were  the  (juestions  which  filled  Gualtier's 
mind  as  he  drove  along — questions  which  bewil- 
dered his  brain,  and  to  which  he  could  not  find 
an  answer.  At  one  time  he  tried  to  think  tiiat  all 
those — Zillah,  Lord  Clhetwynde,  and  Obed  Chute 
— were  in  alliance ;  that  they  understood  one  an- 
other perfectly,  and  Hilda  also ;  artd  that  they 
were  weaving  together  some  deej)  j)lot  wiiich  was 
to  be  her  ruin.  Hut  this  also  seemed  al)surd. 
For,  if  they  Miulerstood  her,  and  knew  who  she 
was,  why  should  they  take  any  trouble  to  weave 
plots  for  her?  That  trouble  they  could  spare 
themselves,  and  could  arrest  her  at  once  whenev- 
er they  chose.  Why  did  Lord  Chetwynde  spare 
her  if  he  knew  all  ?  Was  it  out  of  gratitude  be- 
cause she  had  saved  him  from  death  ?  Impossi- 
ble; for  he  habitually  neglected  her  now,  and 
gave  up  all  his  thoughts  and  his  time  to  Zillah. 
Was  it  possible  that  Zillah  could  have  been  saved, 
found  out  her  husband,  and  was  now  inciting 
him  to  this  strange  course  from  some  desire  to 
get  fresh  proof  against  Hilda?  No;  that  was 
impossible,  for  she  must  already  have  found  out 
proof  enough.  The  withdrawal  of  her  money 
would  of  itself  be  enough  to  show  Ilildu's  com- 
plicity ;  but  her  assumption  of  the  role  of  Lady 
Chetwynde  was  too  audacious  for  a  true  wife  tO  ■ 
bear  unmoved  or  unconvinced. 

Rut  these  things  were  inexplicable.  lie  could 
not  find  even  a  plausible  solution  foi  such  difl[i- 
cult  problems.  His  excited  brain  reeled  beneath 
the  weight  of  puzzles  so  intricate  and  so  compli- 
cated. He  was  compelled  to  dismiss  them  all 
from  his  thoughts.  Rut  though  he  dismissed 
such  thoughts  as  these,  there  were  others  which 
gave  occupation  to  his  whole  mind,  and  these  at 
last  excited  his  chief  interest.  First  among  these 
was  the  thought  of  Hilda.  That  very  afternoon 
she  might  be  coming  out  to  carry  out  her  plan 
of  visiting  Obed  Chute,  and  confounding  Lord 
Chetwynde.  She  would  go  out  knowing  nothing 
of  that  one  whom  she  had  doomed  to  death,  but 
who  was  now  there  to  confront  her.  She  would 
go  out,  and  for  what?  What?  Could  it  be 
aught  felse  than  ruin,  utter  and  absolute  ? 

This  was  his  last  dark  terror — all  fear  for  him- 
self had  |)assed  away.  He  feared  for  Iter,  and 
for  her  alone.  His  love  for  her,  and  his  devo- 
tion to  her,  which  had  been  so  often  and  so  con- 
spicuously tested,  w'.ich  had  sent  him  on  such 
tedious  and  such  '"  rilous  enterprises,  now,  when 
all  was  over  with  himself,  and  not  a  ray  of  ho|)e 
remained,  made  him  rise  above  self  and  selfish 
considerations,  and  regard  her  prospects  and  her 
safety  alone.  The  thought  of  her  going  out  to 
the  villa  in  utter  ignorance  of  this  new  and  ter- 
rific truth  was  intolerable.  Yet  what  could  ho 
do  ?  Nothing ;  and  the  fact  of  his  own  ntf  er  help- 
lessness was  maddening  at  such  a  time  as  this. 
He  watched  through  the  window,  scanning  aII 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


239 


liim- 
1  and 
|evo- 
con- 
Huch 
Then 
lio|)e 
|:lti»h 

I  her 
lit  to 

ter- 
1(1  he 
jielp- 
liii<. 
all 


the  passers-by  with  feverish  anxiety,  which  was 
8o  manifest  thnt  at  length  Obed  noticed  it,  and, 
Hupposing  that  he  was  meditating  some  new  plan 
of  escape  nearer  the  city,  sternly  reprimanded 
him,  and  drew  the  blinds  so  that  nothing  could 
be  seen.  And  thus,  with  close-drawn  blinds  and 
in  silence,  they  drove  toward  the  city;  so  that 
if  Hilda  had  gone  along  the  road,  Gualtier  could 
not  have  seen  her. 

At  the  same  time  Obed,  in  thus  shutting  out 
Gualtier  from  -'.l  sight  of  the  outside  world,  shut 
out  himself  also.  And  though  Lord  Chetwynde 
may  have  passed  on  his  way  to  the  villa,  yet  he 
could  not  have  been  seen  by  the  occupants  of  the 
brougham,  nor  could  he  have  seen  them. 

At  last  they  reached  Florence,  and  Obed  drove 
up  to  the  prefecture  of  the  police.  There  he 
made  his  statement,  and  Gualtier  was  handed 
over  to  the  authorities,  and  put  in  prison  on  a 
<'harge  of  attempted  murder  committed  in  Italian 
waters. 

Gualtier  was  put  into  a  small  chamber,  with 
whitewashed  walls,  narrow  iron-grated  window, 
and  solid  oaken  doors,  in  which  there  was  a 
small  roimd  opening.  There  was  an  iron  bed 
here  and  a  chair.  Gualtier  flung  himself  upon 
the  bed,  and  buried  his  bend  in  his  hands,  lie 
felt  as  if  he  had  reached  the  verge  of  despair ; 
yet,  even  at  that  moment,  it  was  not  of  himself 
that  he  thought.  Far  above  his  distress  and  his 
despair  arose  the  power  of  his  love,  and  thus 
turned  his  thoughts  toward  Hilda.  Was  she  on 
her  way  out  ?  Was  she  going  to  ruin  ?  Or  was 
she  srill  at  her  hotel  ?  She  had  not  said  for  cer- 
tain that  she  was  going  to  the  villa  on  that  day ; 
she  said  that  she  was  going  on  that  day  or  the 
next.  Perhaps  she  had  postponed  it,  and  re- 
served her  visit  for  the  next.  It  seemed  proba- 
ble. If  it  were  indeed  so,  then  there  was  yet 
time  to  make  an  effort  to  save  her.  How  could 
he  make  such  an  effort  ?  How  could  he  gain 
i;ommunication  with  her? 

He  rose  from  his  bed,  and  watched  through  the 
opening  of  his  door.  There  was  a  guard  outside, 
who  paced  backward  and  forward  solemnly. 
Gualtier's  knowledge  of  human  nature,  and  of 
Italian  human  nature  in  ])arrioular,  suggested  to 
him  a  way  by  which  he  might  send  a  message. 
After  some  delay  he  signaled  to  the  guard,  who, 
after  looking  arc.,nd  cautiously,  came  up  to  his 
door. 

"  I  want  to  send  n  message,'  said  Gualtier,  in 
the  best  Italian  that  he  could  muster.  "  It  is 
very  important.  It  is  to  a  friend.  I  will  pay 
well." 

The  guard  looked  interested. 

"Where  is  your  friend?"  he  asked. 

"  In  the  city.  Can  1  have  the  message  sent? 
I  will  pay  two  hundred  piastres  if  1  get  an  an- 
swer." 

The  guard  hesitated. 

"  Wait, "  said  he,  after  a  few  moments' thought ; 
"I  will  see." 

He  went  away,  and  was  gone  for  about  twenty 
minutes.  When  he  returned  he  exchanged  a 
glance  of  profound  intelligence  with  Gualtier, 
and  said : 

"  I  think  it  can  be  done,  signore." 

At  this  Gaultier  went  back,  and,  tearing  a  leaf 
out  of  his  pocket-book,  penciled  the  following 
words : 

"A  miracle  has  hr.ppened.     She  hat  come  to 


life  again.  It  was  no  phantom,  but  herself  that 
appeared  to  you  and  me.  I  am  in  prison.  Do 
not  go  out  to  the  villa.     Fly  and  save  yourself. " 

Folding  this  up.  he  took  it  to  the  guard. 

"If  you  bring  back  an  answer  to  this,"  said 
'■e,  "you  shall  have  two  hundred  piastres.  If 
you  don't  find  the  person,  you  .shall  huve  fifty." 

Gualtier  then  told  him  the  name  and  address 
of  Hilda,  and  wrote  it  out  for  his  information, 
charging  him  that  it  must  be  delivered  to  her- 
self, and  no  other.  The  guard  said  that  he 
could  not  go  himself,  but  would  send  his  youn- 
ger brother.  This  satisfied  Gualtier,  anil  the 
guard  again  departed. 

After  some  time  he  returned,  and  paced  np 
and  down  as  before.  An  hour  passed.  Gual- 
tier became  impatient.    Then  two  hours  elapsed. 

He  then  beck^^'ied  to  the  guard. 

"  He  is  gone  a  long  time,"  said  he. 

"  Perhaps  he  is  waiting,"  said  the  guard  ;  "  if 
it  is  possible  he  will  deliver  the  message." 

Gualtier  waited. 

Three  hours  passed. 

The  guard  at  last  came  back  to  his  door.  He 
handed  back  to  Gualtier  the  letter  which  he  had 
written. 

"The  lady,"  said  he,  "  was  not  at  home.  She 
had  gone  away.  My  brother  waited  all  this 
time,  but  she  did  not  return.  Shall  he  go  back 
and  wait  ?" 

"No,"  said  Gualtier. 

He  gave  a  hundred  piastres  to  the  guard.  He 
took  his  note,  and  tore  it  up.  All  hope  faded 
away  within  him,  and  despair,  black  and  dark, 
settled  down  upon  his  soul. 


CHAPTER  LXXIII. 

obed's  new  adventdre. 

After  leaving  Gualtier  in  custody  Obed  Chute 
drove  away  from  the  police  station  with  an  ex- 
pression of  tranquil  satisfaction  on  his  fine  face ; 
such  an  expression  as  might  befit  one  who  is  con- 
scious of  having  done  his  duty  to  the  uttermost. 
He  drove  down  the  Lungli'  Arno,  and  through 
the  Piazza,  and  past  the  Duomo,  There  was 
no  further  need  to  keep  the  blinds  closed,  and  as 
he  drove  on  he  looked  out  upon  the  inhabitants 
of  Florence  with  a  grand  benignity  of  expression 
to  which  no  language  can  do  justice.  Many 
things  cons])ired  to  fill  his  breast  with  the  seren- 
est  satisfaction  and  self-comi)lacency.  First,  he 
had  f  aved  himself  from  being  hunil>ugged.  Sec- 
ondly, he  had  been  the  victor  in  two  very  respect- 
able trials  of  muscle,  in  which  he,  by  the  sheer 
power  of  muscle,  had  triumphed,  and  in  the  first 
of  which  his  trium|)h  had  been  gained  over  a  man 
armed  with  a  revolver,  and  using  that  revolver, 
while  he  very  generously  scorned  to  use  his  own. 
T'.;.  Uy,  this  man  was  the  very  one  whom  he 
'lad  s  'ht  for  months,  and  who  had  eluded  en- 
tirely tliw  ,  'ice  of  Italy,  France,  and  England. 
Obed  also  ban  "^ee^  merciful  and  magnanimous 
in  his  hour  of  triumji.  He  had  been  too  great- 
hearted to  avail  himselt  v,f  ar/  undue  advantage 
in  the  strife,  or  to  do  one  single  act  of  unneces- 
sary cruelty  when  that  strife  was  over,  and  the 
victory  was  won.  He  had  not  boimd  his  victim 
till  the  new  flight  of  that  victim  had  compelled 
him ;  nor  had  he  spoken  even  one  harsh  word 


240 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


! 


to  liim.  lie  hiul  cnpturod  liim  fairly  and  brave- 
ly too,  and  in  the  most  quiet  and  unostentatious 
manner  had  handed  him  over  to  the  police  of  the 
country. 

(Jf  course  there  were  some  things  which  might 
have  been  more  agreeable  under  the  circum- 
stances. The  mystery  which  surrounded  this 
man  was  not  ple;i«ant.  It  was  not  pleasant,  aft- 
er having  cai)turcd  him,  to  find  himself  still  baf- 
fled in  his  endeavors  to  understand  him  or  his 
motive;  to  find  that  this  man  had  forced  him  to 
interweave  the  case  of  I^ady  Chetwyiule  with  that 
cf  Zillah,  when  to  his  mind  those  two  cases  were 
as  far  asiuider  as  the  poles.  Yet,  after  all,  the  per- 
plexity which  arose  from  this  could  not  interfere 
with  '.he  enjoyment  of  his  triumph.  Baffled  he 
m'^iit  be,  but  still  there  was  no  reason  why  he 
should  not  enjoy  the  calm  i)le!(siire  which  arises 
from  the  consciousness  of  having  well  and  fully 
performed  a  virtuous  action,  and  of  having  done 
one's  duty  both  to  one's  neighbor  and  one's 
self. 

So  ( )bed,  as  he  drove  about  before  going  home, 
enjoyed  the  full  consciousness  of  his  own  merit. 
He  felt  at  peace  with  himself,  with  the  world  at 
large,  and,  for  that  matter,  even  with  (lualtier. 
So  long  as  Gualtier  had  baffled  liim  and  eluded 
his  most  ardent  search,  he  had  exi)erienced  the 
bitterest  and  the  most  vindictive  feelings  toward 
the  villiiin  who  had  perpetrated  such  foul  crimes, 
and  persisted  in  evading  nil  pursuit,  liut  now 
that  this  mysterious  villain  had  been  captured, 
and  by  himself,  he  felt  that  bitterness  and  vin- 
dictiveness  no  longer.  He  was  satisfied  that  the 
law  would  administer  to  him  the  full  punish- 
ment which  was  due  to  his  crimes,  and  as  far 
as  he  was  concerned  personally  he  had  no  feel- 
ing against  him.  lie  was  simply  desirous  of 
justice. 

Seated  thus  in  his  brougham  he  drove  past 
Giotto's  Campanile,  and  past  those  immortal 
gates  of  bronze  which  Ghiherti  made  for  the 
Bai)tistery,  and  which  Michael  Angelo  declared 
to  be  worthy  of  being  the  gates  of  Paradise.  It 
was  just  at  this  last  place,  as  the  brougham  was 
moving  leisurely  on,  that  bis  attention  was  ar- 
rested by  a  figure  which  was  seated  on  the  stone 
stejis  innncdiutely  outside  of  one  of  those  gates. 
It  was  a  woman,  elderly,  decrepit,  and  apparent- 
ly poor.  She  was  dressed  in  deep  mourning. 
She  was  very  pale,  her  hair  was  as  white  as  snow, 
and  her  eyes  looked  forth  with  an  eager,  watch- 
ful, wistful  ex])ressioti— an  expression  of  patient 
yet  curious  vigilance,  like  that  of  one  who  is  wait- 
ing for  some  friend,  or  some  enemy,  who  delays 
to  appear.  It  was  a  memorable  face — memora- 
ble, too,  from  its  sadness,  and  from  the  eager  yet 
almost  ho{)eless  scrutiny  which  it  turned  toward 
every  one  that  passed,  'i'his  was  the  figure  that 
iftracted  Obed.  He  gave  it  one  look,  and  that 
,  .le  look  was  enough  for  him. 

The  moment  that  he  saw  this  woman  an 
exclamation  burst  from  him — an  exclamation 
which  was  so  loiul  tli  t  the  woman  heard  him. 
She  started  and  looked  up.  At  that  moment 
the  brougham  stopped,  and  Obed,  tearing  open 
the  door,  sprang  out  and  hurried  up  the  steps  of 
the  Haptistcry,  where  the  woman  was  sitting. 
She  bed  seen  him.  A  flush  passed  over  her 
pale,  ghastly  face  ;  a  wild  light  came  to  her  eyes. 
Tremblingly  and  with  deep  excitement  she  rose 
to  her  feet,  steadying  herself  by  grasping  the 


bronze  gateway,  and  looked  at  liim  with  an  earn- 
est, wondering  gaze. 

Obed  Chute  came  toward  her  (piickly,  yet  with 
a  certain  reverential  wonder  in  his  face.  The 
trium])h  and  the  self-complacency  had  all  died 
out,  and  there  was  left  nothing  but  a  mournfid 
surprise,  with  which  there  was  also  mingled  a 
deep  and  infexpressible  pity  and  sym]>athy. 

He  came  nearer  and  nearer,  still  with  all  this 
on  bis  face,  while  she  stood  awaiting  him  and 
watching  him,  clinging  all  the  while  to  the  bronze 
gates  of  Ghiherti. 

"Is  this  possible?"  said  Obed,  as  ho  came 
near  her  and  regarded  her  earnestly.  "Is  it 
possible  ?"  he  repeated,  in  a  low,  soft  voice,  with 
a  deep  solemnity  in  tiie  tones  that  was  fur  differ- 
ent from  his  usual  maimer.  "Is  this  indeed 
ijou — and  here  too?"' 

Ho  held  out  both  his  hands.     Ilis  face  l,o 
ened ;  the  hard  lines  seemed  to  fade  away  into 
a  certain   imspcakable  tenderness,  and  in   his 
eyes  tliere  was  a  look  of  infinite  pity  and  com- 
passion. 

"Yes,  it  is  I,"  said  the  woman,  in  a  vmc 
which  sounded  like  a  moan.  "I  am  still  alive 
— still  living  on — while  so  many  who  aro  better 
are  dead  and  are  at  rest." 

She  placed  one  hand  in  his,  while  with  the 
other  she  still  clung  to  the  gateway.  The  hand 
which  she  gave  was  shriveled  and  emaciated, 
and  cold  also  to  Obed  as  ho  felt  it  while  holding 
it  in  both  of  his. 

"  Years  have  passed,"  said  he  at  length,  after 
a  long  and  solemn  silence,  during  which  each  re- 
garded the  other  most  earnestly — "years  have 
passed,"  he  rei)eated  —  "years — since  you  left 
— since  1  saw  you  best.  Are  you  living  here?" 
be  continued,  after  some  hesitation.  "  1  suppose 
yon  are  with  one  of  the  religious  houses  ?" 

The  woman  shook  her  head  wearily. 

"No,"  said  she;  "I  am  by  myself.  I  am 
alone  in  the  world.  I  am  now  simply  '  Mrs. 
Hart.'  I  have  come  here  on  important  business. 
It  is  more  than  imjwrtant ;  it  is  a  matter  of  life 
and  death." 

"Mrs.  Hart!  Is  that  the  name  that  you 
have?"  asked  Obed. 

"That  is  my  name, "said  Mrs.  Hart,  wearily. 
"  It  has  been  my  name  for  many  years,  and  has 
done  me  good  service." 

Obed  said  nothing,  but  regarded  her  for  a  long 
time  in  silence,  wondering  all  the  while  at  the 
mysterious  fate  of  this  unhappy  woman. 

At  last  he  spoke. 

"  Have  you  been  here  long?"  he  asked.  "  I 
have  been  here  for  some  weeks,  but  I  have  never 
seen  you." 

"  Nor  have  I  seen  you,"  said  Mrs.  Hart.  "  1 
have  been  here  long,  but  I  have  seen  no  one 
whom  I  know.     I  am  alone." 

"And  are  you  able  to  go  alone  about  this 
business  of  which  you  speak — this  business  'of 
life  and  death?'  Have  you  any  help?  Is  it  a 
thing  which  you  could  commit  to  the  j)olice  ?" 

"  No,"  said  Mrs.  Hart.  "I  came  here  in 
seach  of—of  a  friend ;  but  I  have  not  been  able 
to  find  him." 

"Are  you  alone,  then?"  asked  Obed,  in  pro- 
found sympathy,  while  his  face  and  his  voice  still 
showed  the  deep  feeling  of  bis  heart.  "Have 
you  no  one  at  all  to  help  you  ?  Is  this  a  thing 
which  you  must  do  by  yourself?    Could  not  an- 


lU, 


THE  CX-^i  TOGRAM. 


241 


you 


I 

hever 

"I 

one 

this 

'of 

it  a 

I?" 

re  in 

]  able 

pro- 
still 
1 1  live 
jhing 
It  an 


''IS   Tins    INUliBD   lOlI — AND    HKKK    TOO  ?"' 


other  assist  you  ?  Would  it  be  jiossible  for  you 
to  let  me  help  you  in  this?  I  can  do  much  if 
you  will  allow  nie— if  you  will  again  put  confi- 
dence  in  an  old  friend." 

Mrs.  Hart  looked  at  him  earnestly,  and  tears 
started  to  her  eyes. 

"Oh,  my  friend,"  she  murmured,  "I  believe 
ihat  God  has  sent  you  to  me.  I  see  in  your 
face  and  I  hear  in  your  voice  that  you  still  can 
feel  for  me.  God  bless  you !  my  noble,  my  only 
friend !  Yes,  you  can  help  me.  There  is  no 
secret  of  mine  which  I  need  hide  from  you.  1 
will  fell  you  all — when  I  get  stronger — and  you 
shall  help  me.  But  I  am  very  weak  now,"'  she 
said,  wearily. 

Obed  looked  away,  and  for  a  time  said  not  one 
word.  But  that  strong  frame,  which  not  long 
liefore  luid  dared  the  shots  of  a  desperate  enemy, 
now  trembled  violently  at  the  tears  of  an  old  wo- 
man. With  a  powerful  effort  ho  gulped  down 
his  emotion. 

"Where  are  you  living?"  he  asked,  in  a  voice 
which  had  changed  to  one  of  strange  sweetness 
and  tenderness.  "You  are  weak.  Will  you 
let  me  drive  you  now  to  your  home  ?" 

For  a  few  moments  Mrs.  Hart  looked  at  him 
piteously,  and  made  no  rc)ih'. 
Q 


"I  think  it  will  be  bettor  for  you  to  go 
home  in  my  carriage,"  said  Obed,  gently  urging 
her. 

She  still  looked  at  him  with  the  same  piteotis- 
ness. 

"  In  what  part  of  the  city  do  you  live?''  said 
Obed,  as  he  took  her  hand  and  drew  it  inside 
bis  arm.  "Come,  let  me  lead  you  to  the  car- 
riage. " 

Mrs.  Ilart  held  back  for  a  moment,  and  again 
looked  at  him. 

"/  hare  no  home"  she  said,  in  a  voice  which 
had  died  away  to  a  whisper. 

At  once  tlie  truth  flashed  upon  Obed's  mind. 

"  I  have  no  home," continued  Mrs.  Hart.  "  I 
was  turned  out  yesterday.  Last  night  I  slept  in 
the  Boboli  Gardens.  For  two  days  I  have  had 
nothing  to  eat." 

Obed  Chute  staggered  back  as  though  he  liiul 
received  a  violent  hlow.  "  O  God !"  he  groaned, 
"has  it  come  to  this?" 

He  said  not  another  word,  but  gently  led  Mrs. 
Hart  to  the  brougham.  He  drove  to  a  cafe 
first,  and  persuaded  her  to  take  some  nourish- 
ment. Then  he  took  her  once  more  into  the 
carriage,  and  they  drove  slowly  out  of  the 
city. 


242 


THE  CKVPTOGRAM. 


CHAPTER  LXXIV. 

HBWILDERMENT. 

Scarcely  any  thing  was  stiid  on  tt.j  drive  out 
,rom  Florence  to  the  villu.  Teiirs  fell  fre(iuent- 
ly  from  tlie  eyes  of  the  poor  wundei-er  as  she  sat 
wrapped  in  deep  thought.  Obed  sat  in  silence, 
looking  out  of  the  window  upon  vacancy,  seeing 
nothing ;  or,  rather,  seeing  still  that  face,  with  its 
wan  lips  and  ghastly  outline,  which  had  tuld  so 
thrilling  a  story  of  homelessness  and  starvation. 
His  thoughts  were  going  back  through  the  years 
— the  long-vanished  years.  And  as  he  thought 
there  came  over  his  rugged  face  an  infinite  pity 
and  tenderness ;  from  his  eyes  there  beamed  sad- 
ness and  compa.ssion  unutterable.  He  kept  si- 
lence thus,  all  that  drive,  because  he  could  not 
trust  himself  to  speak. 

It  was  only  when  they  reached  the  gatc.vay 
of  the  villa  that  he  opened  his  lips.  Then,  as 
they  drove  through,  he  turned  toward  her,  and 
putting  his  hand  on  her  arm,  he  said  : 

"  Here  is  your  home  now — while  you  live." 

"Oh,  my  friend !"  murmured  Mrs.  Hart ;  and 
she  could  say  no  more. 

On  reaching  the  door  Obed  assisted  Mrs.  Hart 
out  of  the  brougham,  and  they  entered  the  hall. 
There  were  sounds  of  voices  in  the  drawing- 
room,  and  on  crossing  the  threshold  of  the 
villa  a  gentleman's  voice  arose  in  a  cheerful  and 
sprightly  tone : 

"Checkmated  again!  Really,  Miss  Lorton, 
after  this  you'll  have  to  give  mo  the  odds  of  a 
pawn ;  you've  beaten  me  seven  games  out  of  our 
last  ten.'" 

"I  don't  believe  it  was  fair,"  said  a  lady's 
voice.  "I  firmly  believe,  and  I've  said  it  all 
along,  that  you  let  me  beat  you.  Why,  you 
taught  me  chess  yourself,  and  how  is  it  possible 
that  I  could  catch  up  to  ray  master  in  so  short 
a  time  ';*" 

"  I  don't  pretend  to  account  for  it,  Miss  Lor- 
ton," said  the  gentleman's  voice.  "There,  be- 
fore you,  is  something  better  than  theory.  It  is 
an  indisputable  fact.  There  is  my  king,  with 
your  queen  immediately  in  front  of  him,  and 
your  rook  in  the  distance  guarding  that  strong- 
minded  lady.  And  where  is  my  queen  ?  Why, 
gadding  about  with  knights  and  bishops,  when 
she  ought  to  have  been  standing  by  the  side  of 
her  unfortunate  husband." 

As  these  words  came  to  her  ears  Mrs.  Hart 
stood  still,  and  one  hand  grasped  ()l)ed  ('hute's 
arm  convulsively,  while  the  other  was  pressed  to 
her  brow. 

•"What  is  this?  Who  are  these T  Are  they 
here?"  she  asked,  in  a  thrilling  voice.  "  Am  I 
dreaming?  Is  this  some  mockery,  or  are  they 
both  here  ?  Is  it  some  surprise  ?  Tell  me,  my 
friend.     Did  you  arrange  all  this  ?" 

tShe  looked  at  Obed  in  a  bewildered  manner. 
He  thought  that  her  mind  was  wandering. 

"CJome,"  said  he,  kindly,  "you  must  go  to 
your  room  now  and  rest,  and  then — " 

But  here  a  loud  remark  from  the  gentleman, 
followed  by  a  merry  answer  from  the  lady,  in- 
terrupted Obed,  and  Mrs.  Hart  prevented  him 
from  finishing  his  sentence ;  for  suddenly  she 
started  away  from  him,  and,  without  a  word, 
hurried  into  the  room  from  which  the  voices 
came.  Obed  stood  f)r  a  moment  quite  con- 
founded, aitd  then,  feeling  assured  that  the  poor 


creature's  brain  was  turned,  followed  her  hur- 
riedly. 

Mrs.  Hart  burst  into  the  room,  with  a  white 
face  and  eager,  inquiring  eyes.  Roused  by  the 
noise  of  footsteps,  J^ord  Chetwynde  and  Zillali 
turned.  To  the  amazement  of  both  they  saw 
Mrs.  Hart. 

Had  the  form  of  General  Pomeroy,  or  of  Earl 
Chetwynde,  appeared  at  that  instant  before  them, 
they  could  not  have  been  more  confounded. 
Lord  Chetwynde,  however,  was  cool  and  calm. 
There  was  nothing  in  his  secret  which  was  very 
imj)ortimt,  and  there  was  therefore  no  fear  of  a 
discovery  to  disturb  the  unfeigned  joy  that  min- 
gled with  his  wonder  at  this  sudden  appearance 
of  his  old  nurse,  blended  also  with  deep  and 
sharp  grief  at  the  weary,  wan,  and  wretched  face 
that  he  saw  before  him.  As  to  his  assumed 
name  and  the  revelation  of  his  true  one,  that  did 
not  trouble  him  at  all,  for  he  could  give  his  ex- 
planation very  readily.  But  with  Zillah  it  was 
ditt'erent.  Rightly  or  wrongly,  she  considered 
her  secret  a  thing  which  should  be  giuirded  like 
her  heart's  blood ;  and  now  she  saw  suddenly 
before  her  the  certainty  of  a  full  and  grand  dis- 
closure— a  disclosure,  too,  not  merely  in  the  pres- 
ence of  Obed  Chute,  but  of  Windham  also.  Yet. 
even  this  fear,  terrible  as  it  would  have  been  at 
other  times,  was  successfully  mastered,  and  her 
generous  and  lovinj;  nature  turned  away  from 
selfish  fears,  with  longing  and  joy  and  pity,  to 
this  dear  old  friend  ;  and  these  feelings,  mingling 
together  at  that  sudden  sight,  drove  away  all 
others. 

But  now  to  these  succeeded  a  new  surprise, 
which  was  overwhelming.  For  just  as  she  start- 
ed, in  obedience  to  her  impulse,  she  saw  Lord 
Chetwynde  hurry  forward.  (She  saw  Mrs.  Hart's 
eyes  fixed  on  him  in  a  kind  of  ecstasy.  She 
saw  her  totter  forward,  with  all  her  face  over- 
spread with  a  joy  that  is  but  suldom  known  — 
known  only  in  rare  moments,  when  some  lost 
one,  loved  and  lost — some  one  more  precious 
than  life  it.self — is  suddenly  foun('.  She  saw  Lord 
Chetwynde  hurry  forward.  S'ik  saw  Mrs.  Hart 
run  toward  him,  and  with  a  low  moan,  a  long- 
ing, yearning  cry,  fling  herself  upon  his  breast 
and  clnsp  him  in  her  arms. 

She  heard  her  words  —  words  wonderful, 
thrilling,  and  beyond  all  understanding : 

"Oh, my  boy!  Oh,  myown!  Oh,Guy!  Oh, 
my  little  boy!  Oh,  my  darling!  My  God!  I 
thank  Thee  for  this  joy!" 

Uttering  such  broken  ejaculations  Mrs.  Hart 
burst  into  a  passion  of  tears,  and  only  Lord 
(^hetwynde's  strong  arms  prevented  her  from 
falling. 

He  upheld  her.  Tie  kissed  her.  He  mur- 
mured words  of  affection,  deep  and  tender  and 
true.  With  gentle  urgency  he  drew  her  to  a 
sofa,  made  her  sit  down  by  his  side,  and  placed 
her  head  against  his  breast,  and  took  her  emacia- 
ted hands  in  his.  He  seemed  to  have  forgotten 
the  presence  of  others  in  that  sudden,  tl;at  over- 
whelming feeling  of  compassion  for  his  aged,  his 
heart-broken  nurse.  He  was  unconscious  even 
of  Zillah.  In  that  moment  his  whole  soul  and 
his  whole  heart  were  turned  to  this  wan  face  that 
leaned  against  his  breast. 

Ho  said  very  little.  How  could  he  ftay  much  ? 
A  few  attempts  at  soothing  her — a  few  loving 
words — these  were  all.    And  these  were  enough  j 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


243 


ifiil, 

Oh, 

I!  I 

I  art 

ioin 

lur- 
ivnd 
;o  a 
iced 
cia- 
tten 
Iver- 
hiB 
feven 
■and 
Vhat 

ich? 
ling 


for  better  than  tliese  was  the  love  that  was  ex- 
pressed in  liis  strung  embrace — tiie  love  that 
sustained  her  now,  and  changed  despair  into 
rapture. 

"My  dearest,"  he  said — "dearest  old  nurse 
— nurse !  mamma !  Don't  grieve  now.  Come, 
look  up,  and  let  me  see  your  sweet  old  face." 

His  voice  was  broken  with  emotion.  How  he 
loved  that  one  whom  he  called  his  "dear  old 
nurse!" 

"Look  up,  old  woman.  Look  up.  Let  me 
see  your  face.  You  don't  know  how  dear  it  is 
to  me." 

And  Mrs.  Hart  raised  her  face,  and  in  her 
face  lie  read  a  love  infinite,  all-consuming,  im- 
perishable— a  love  which  now,  however,  satiated 
and  intoxicated  itself  in  the  look  that  she  gave. 

She  said  nothing  more,  but,  clinging  to  him, 
she  seemed  to  hold  him  to  her  weary  heart  as 
though  she  feared  that  something  might  take 
him  away. 

"Forgive  me, my  own  ;  do  not  be  angry,  my 
dearest,"  slie  murmured,  "  with  your  poor  old 
imrse.  I  left  home  long,  long  ago.  I  rose  from 
my  sick-bed  to  seek  you.  I  came  liere,  and  have 
watclicd  and  watched  for  a  long  time.  Oh,  how 
long !     But  you  never  came. '' 

"  You !  watching  for  me !  hero  in  Florence !" 
exclaimed  Lord  Chetwynde,  in  wonder.  "My 
poor  old  dear !  why  ?" 

"I  will  tell  you  again — not  now — I  am  too 
weak.  Hold  my  hands  fast,  my  own.  Let  me 
see  your  dear  face — oh,  how  dear !" 

And  witli  her  hands  in  his,  and  her  eyes  feed- 
ing her  soul  upon  his  face,  she  lay  upon  his 
breast. 

Meanwhile  Obed  Chute  had  stood  thunder- 
struck. To  account  for  this  amazing  scene  was 
so  utterly  impossible  that  he  did  not  even  at- 
tempt it.  That  was  beyond  the  reach  of  human 
capacity.  But  he  noted  all  that  holy  tender- 
ness, and  that  unfathomable  love  which  beamed 
from  that  wan,  worn  face,  and  he  felt  that  this 
was  not  a  scene  for  other  eyes.  He  went  softly 
over  to  Zillah,  who  had  stood  motionless  hither- 
to, and  taking  her  hand  he  led  her  solemnly  out 
of  the  room. 

They  went  into  another  apartment,  and  sat 
there  in  silence.  Zillali  was  so  filled  with  amaze- 
ment that  it  overwhelmed  her. 

She  had  seen  Mrs.  Hart's  joy.  She  had  heard 
her  give  to  Windham  the  name  of  "  Guy."  She 
had  heard  him  call  lier  those  tender,  well-known 
names — the  fond  names  with  which  the  letters 
of  (iuy  Molyneux  used  always  to  be  filled.  What 
did  all  this  mean  ? 

God  in  heaven!  Was  this  a  dream,  or  a 
reality?  Could  there,  adeed,  be  truth  in  this 
scene?  Could  this  be  possibly  what  it  seemed 
to  be?    Was  Windham  Guy  Molyneux  ? 

The  question  was  too  be\vildering.  A  thou- 
sand circumstances  at  once  suggested  themselves 
as  tliat  question  arose.  All  the  past  came  back 
before  her,  with  the  scenes  and  the  words  of 
that  past.  She  remembered  now  Windham's 
saying  that  he  was  married,  and  that  he  hated 
his  wife  worse  than  death.  What  did  this  mean? 
Did  this  not  coincide  with  what  she  knew  of  Guy 
Molyneux  ?  And  what  was  to  be  the  end  of  all 
this?  Her  bruin  reeled  at  the  thoughts  that 
came  to  her  as  sh<>  asked  herself  this  question. 

For  this  Windham  was  hers.    Windhan),  with 


his  devotion,  his  fervid  passion,  his  burning 
words,  his  despaiiing  love,  his  incessant  self- 
watchfulness  and  sti'ong  self-control.  Windham, 
who  had  snatched  her  from  a  dreadful  death, 
and  given  glory  and  bliss  to  that  heaven  in  life 
whicii  she  had  known  in  Marseilles  and  in  Flor- 
ence ;  Windham,  who  had  found  in  her  society 
his  highest  happiness,  and  had  spoken  to  her 
words  of  frenzied  adoration  ;  Windham,  who 
had  been  the  partner  of  so"  many  stolen  inter- 
views ;  Windham,  who  once  had  flung  aside  even 
his  honor  and  duty  in  his  mad  love,  and  urged 
her  to  fly  with  him  to  India!  And  could  this 
man  be  Guy  Molyneux  ?  There  were  amazing 
coincidences  which  she  could  now  recall.  He 
had  come  home  in  mourning  from  India.  He 
had  told  her  of  those  very  scenes  in  India  of 
which  she  had  read  in  Guy's  letters.  He  had 
said  that  he  was  bound  to  a  fate  which  he  ab- 
horred, and  she  recalled  what  had  been  her  own 
conjectures  as  to  what  that  fate  might  be. 

At  such  thoughts  as  these  she  was  filled  with 
a  mixture  of  deep  joy  and  deadly  fear.  What 
might  the  end  be?  what  could  the  end  be? — 
this  was  the  question  now.  Windham  loved  ; 
Guy  hated.  Co-ild  these  two  men  be  indeed 
one?  If  they  were,  then  how  could  this  love 
and  hate  be  reconciled  ?  Would  Windham  cease 
to  love,  or  Guy  give  up  his  hate  ?  To  her,  also, 
there  was  still  terror  in  the  thought  of  Guy ;  and 
for  Windham  to  be  resolved  into  that  man,  from 
whom  she  had  fled,  seemed  to  her  as  though  he 
were  about  to  become  her  enemy.  Yet  this  did 
not  seem  possible.  Such  confidence  had  she  in 
Windham's  love  that  the  thought  of  his  losing 
it,  or  changing,  appeared  the  wildest  improba- 
bility. No ;  that,  at  least,  could  not  be.  Still  he 
was  her  own.  Not  yet  could  she  blend  his  im- 
age with  that  of  Guy.  In  her  bewilderment  she 
clung  to  this  as  her  only  comfort,  and  hoped 
that,  in  some  way,  all  this  would  be  explained. 

Meanwhile  Obed  had  been  sitting  in  a  bewil- 
derment equal  to  hers,  and  keeping  a  silence  that 
was  hard  to  maintain.  At  length  he  could  re- 
strain his  feelings  no  longer. 

"  Can  you  tell,"  he  asked  at  length — "  can  you 
imagine,  Miss  Lorton — have  you  the  remotest 
idea  of  what  in  thunder  is  the  meaning  of  all 
this?" 

"  I  don't  know,"  said  Zillah  ;  "I  don't  under- 
stand ;  I  can't  even  imagine." 

"And  I'm — well,"  interposed  Obetl,  with  a 
blank  look  of  despair,  "the  English  language 
does  not  afford  a  word,  not  one  single  word,  that 
can  express  the  idea;  so  I  will  resort  to  the 
American,  and  merely  remark  that  at  this  i)re8- 
ont  moment  I'm  catawampously  chawed  up." 

"Do  you  know  Mrs.  Hart?"  said  Zillah. 
"Of  course  you  do." 

"  Mrs.  Hart  ?''  asked  Obed,  in  momentary  sur- 
prise. 

"Yes— her." 

'Mvs.  Hart?  Oh,  I  see.  Yes,  I  knew  her 
many  years  ago.  This  afternoon  I  found  her  in 
Florence.  I  brought  her  out  here.  She  told 
me  that  she  had  come  here  m  search  of  a  friend  ; 
but,  by  the  living  thunder,  the  very  last  |>erson 
that  I  should  have  guessed  at  as  that  friend  would 
have  been  Windham.  And  yet  he  was  the  man 
— the  identical  individual.  But  did  you  ever  see 
such  joy,"  he  coiUinaed,  after  a  pause,  "as  there 
was  in  her  face  at  her  first  sight  of  him  ?    Well, 


I 


2H 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


when  I  met  he  mhe  was  in  as  deep  a  despair.  She 
was  crouching  on  the  steps  of  the  Baptistery,  look- 
ing with  eager  eyes — iiungry  eyes — to  find  some 
one.  And  all  this  time  it  was  Windham.  She 
camo  here  to  find  him,  and  him  only.  iShe 
has  been  here  for  weeks,  perhaps  for  months, 
wandering  about,  in  suffering  and  weakness, 
looking  every  where  for  Windham.  She  had 
spent  all  her  money ;  she  iuid  been  turned  out 
of  her  lodgings ;  slio  had  neither  food  nor  shel- 
ter. For  two  or  three  days  she  had  not  eivten 
any  tiling.  When  1  happened,  by  the  merest  ac- 
cident, to  find  her,  do  you  know  what  she  was 
doing?  She  was  dying  of  starvation,  but  still 
she  was  looking  for  Windham  !  And  I  solemn- 
ly believe  that  if  1  had  not  found  her  she  would 
be  there  at  this  moment.  Yes,  she  would  be 
sitting  there  in  misery,  in  want,  and  in  starva- 
tion, still  looking  after  Windham.  And  if  she 
had  died  there,  on  that  spot,  I  feel  convinced  that 
the  lust  movement  of  her  li])s  would  have  been 
ft  murmur  of  his  ni\me,  and  the  last  look  of  her 
dying  eyes  would  have  been  for  Windham.  I 
saw  all  this  in  every  look  of  hers,  and  in  every 
word  of  hers  that  she  has  thus  far  uttered  to  me 
about  her  fearful  experiences.  I  .saw  tliis  ;  and 
now  I  beg  leave  to  ask,  in  the  quietest  way  in  the 
world,  Wiio  is  this  Windham,  and  what  is  he  to 
her?" 

Here  Obed  ceased.  He  had  spoken  in  a  way 
that  showed  the  deep  emotion  wliicli  be  felt,  and 
the  sorrow  and  sympathy  tliat  fdied  bis  soul. 
As  be  spoke  of  Mrs.  Hart's  miseries  his  voice 
trembled.  Never  iu  his  life  bad  he  met  with  sor- 
row like  her  sorrow.  It  was  not  this  last  s''ene 
in  her  life  which  gave  him  this  feeling,  but  it  was 
liis  knowledge  of  that  awful  past  in  wiiich  she  had 
lived,  and  sinned,  and  sulfered— that  past  whose 
snfl'erings  were  perpetuated  still,  whose  lurid 
shadows  were  now  projected  into  tiiese  later  days 
of  tier  life.  All  this  lie  felt,  and  he  showed  it, 
and  he  sought  earnestly  to  solve  tiie  problem 
wiiicli  these  tilings  held  out  to  bis  mind  ;  but  he 
could  not  find  a  solution,  nor  could  Zilhih  give 
one.  For  her  part,  it  was  with  unfeigned  horror 
that  she  listened  to  Obed's  recital  of  Mrs.  Hart's 
flniferings  and  despair ;  yet  as  she  listened  there 
came  to  her  mind  tiie  same  question  which  had 
been  asked  by  Obed,  Who  is  this  Windham? 
and  what  is  he  to  her  ?  Could  her  old  devotion 
as  tlie  nurse  of  Guy  account  for  this?  Or  was 
there  some  deeper  cause  ?  Had  she  come  to  save 
him  from  something?  Yet  from  what?  From 
danger  ?     Yet  from  what  danger  ? 

And  thus  to  each  of  these  alike  there  came  the 
same  problem,  yet  to  each  there  camo  no  hope 
of  solution. 


CHAPTER  LXXV. 

RE8PAIR. 

The  time  seemed  long'indeed  to  Obed  and  to 
Zillah,  as  they  sat  there  in  silence,  wondering, 
bewildered,  yet  utterly  unable  to  fathom  the 
deep  mystery  that  lay  before  them.  Half  an 
hour  elapsed ;  and  at  last  some  one  crossed  the 
hall  and  came  to  the  door.  It  was  Lord  Chet- 
wynde.     He  looked  troubled  and  excited. 

"  Miss  Lorton,"  said  he,  "she  wants  j/nu.  I 
don't  understand  what  she  says.  It  is  very 
strange.     She  must  bo  out  of  her  senses.    Come 


in,  Mr.  Chute.  See  if  you  can  help  me  out  of 
my  bewilderment." 

He  offered  his  arm  to  Zillah,  but  she  did  not 
take  it.  It  seemed  as  if  she  did  not  see  it. 
Filled  with  vague  fears  and  apprehensions,  she 
walked  into  the  room  where  Mrs.  Hart  was,  and 
Lord  Clietwynde  and  Obed  Chute  came  after  her. 

Mrs.  Hart  was  lying  upon  the  sofa.  As  Zil- 
lah entered  she  fixed  her  eyes  ujion  her. 

"  I  have  been  too  selfish,"  said  she.  "In  my 
joy  at  finding  my  boy  so  unexpectedly  and  so 
wonderfully,  I  have  not  been  able  to  speak  one 
word  to  my  sweet  girl.  Oh,  Zillah,  my  child, 
you,  I  know,  will  forgive  me.  But  are  you  not 
amazed  to  see  me  ?  Yet  I  am  still  more  amazed 
to  see  you.  How  did  you  come  here?  How  is 
it  that  I  find  you  here — along  with  my  noble 
friend — in  his  house?  I  am  all  overcome  with 
wonder.  I  can  not  understand  this.  I  do  not 
know  what  to  say,  or  where  to  begin  to  ask  the 
questions  that  I  wish  to  ask.  Mr.  Chute  seems 
a  kind  of  Providence,"  she  added,  with  jieculiar 
emphasis  in  the  faint  tones  of  her  weak  voice — 
"a  kind  of  Providence,  who  comes  to  people  in 
their  last  extremities,  and  saves  them  from  de- 
spair! Mr.  Chute,"  she  continued,  "is  my 
savior!"  She  paused  for  a  time,  and  looked  at 
Obed  with  a  certain  deep  meaning  in  her  eyes. 
Then  she  turned  to  Zillah  again.  "My  child," 
she  said,  "dear,  sweet  Zillah!  you  will  have  to 
tell  me  all  about  this.  Why  was  it  that  you  fled 
away  from  C-hetwynde  ?  And  oh  !  how  could  you 
have  the  heart  to  give  me  up  to  strangers  ?" 

Amazed,  speechless,  overcome  by  wonder, 
Zillah  could  not  say  a  word.  She  went  to  Mrs. 
Hart,  folded  her  in  her  arms,  and  kissed  over 
and  over  again  the  white  lips  of  the  woman  who 
had  once  been  dear  to  her  in  Chetwyiuie  Castle. 

"I  do  not  understand  it,"  said  Mrs.  Hart, 
feebly,  and  with  an  exjiression  of  deep  amaze- 
ment; "I  do  not  comprehend  all  this  at  all. 
Here  you  all  are,  all  of  you  whom  I  love — the 
only  ones  on  earth  whom  I  love.  Here  is  my 
boy,  my  darling,  whom  I  came  to  seek !  Here 
is  my  sweet  Zillah,  who  brightened  ipy  mournful 
life  at  Chetwyiuie  Castle  with  her  love  and  ten- 
derness. And  here  I  see  my  best  friend,  who 
camo  to  save  me  from  death  and  despair,  and 
brought  me  here  to  life  and  joy  and  hope! 
■What  is  the  meaning  of  it  all  ?  My  boy  con  not 
tell  me.  Say,  my  sweet  Zillah,  can  not  you  tell 
me  ?  Do  you  not  know  ?  Do  you  imderstnnd  ? 
Say,  whose  jilan  is  it  ?  Is  it  your  plan  ?  Who 
has  brought  us  all  together?" 

"It  is  God,"  said  Zillah,  solemnly.  "I  do 
not  understand  how  you  came  here.  Let  us 
thank  God  that  you  have  found  your  friends." 

She  spoke  at  random  ;  she  knew  not  what  to 
say.  In  her  own  dark  perplexity  she  was  un- 
able to  say  any  thing  else ;  and  when  she  saw 
that  Mrs.  Hart  was  equally  perplexed,  and  turned 
to  her  for  information,  she  could  only  find  an  an- 
swer in  those  words  which  were  prom{)ted  by 
her  heart.  So  she  spoke,  and  she  could  say  no 
more. 

Nor  could  the  others.  All  were  silent.  That 
white  face  looked  wistfully  from  one  to  the  oth- 
er, with  eager  eyes,  as  though  seeking  from  each 
some  explanation  ;  but  none  could  give  her  that 
which  she  sought.  In  the  faces  that  stirronnded 
her  she  saw  nothing  else  but  a  wonder  which  was 
fully  equal  to  her  own. 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


245 


Bt   US 
IS." 

|at  to 

un- 

saw 

krned 

lan- 

Id  by 

liy  no 

rrhat 

oth- 
I  each 

that 
Inded 

watt 


Obed  Chute  had  now  a  fresh  cause  for  bewil- 
derment. For  liere  wns  Zillah  chiiined  fondly  as 
ii  dear  and  loveu  friend  by  Mrs.  Hart.  VVho 
was  .she  ?  Was  her  mysterious  story  boimd  up 
in  any  way  with  the  tragical  life  of  the  other  who 
thus  claimed  her?  He  hud  been  suthciently 
astonished  at  the  meeting  between  the  woman 
whom  he  had  rescued  and  his  friend  Windham  ; 
but  now  he  saw  his  protege,  Miss  Lorton,  recog- 
nized by  her  as  her  dearest  friend,  and  called  by 
the  most  loving  names — with  an  aft'ection,  too, 
which  was  fully  returned  by  the  one  whom  she 
thus  addressed.  What  to  think  or  to  say  he 
knew  not.  Of  all  the  mysteries  of  which  he  had 
ever  heard  none  equaled  this,  and  it  seemed  to 
become  more  complicated  every  instant.  He 
was  at  once  perplexed  by  this  insoluble  problem, 
and  vexed  because  it  was  insoluble.  To  his  calm 
and  straightforward  mind  nothing  was  so  aggra- 
vating as  a  puzzle  which  could  not  be  explained. 
He  abhorred  all  mysteries.  Yet  here  he  found 
one  full  before  him  which  baffled  his  utmost 
powers  of  comprehension — one,  too,  in  which  he 
himself  was  intermixed,  and  in  which  he  saw 
Mrs.  Hart  and  Windham  and  Miss  Lorton  all 
equally  involved,  and  what  was  worse,  equally  in 
the  dark. 

But  if  Obed's  bewilderment  was  great,  what 
can  be  said  of  that  which  filled  the  mind  of  Lord 
Chetwynde  ?  He  saw  his  old  nurse,  whom  he  so 
deeply  and  even  so  passionately  loved,  turning 
away  from  himself  to  clasp  in  her  arms,  and  to 
greet  with  the  fondest  aft'ection,  that  beautiful 
girl  who  was  dearer  to  him  than  any  thing  else 
in  life.  Mrs.  Hart  knew  Miss  Lorton!  Above 
all,  ho  was  struck  by  the  name  which  she  gave 
her.  She  called  her  "  Zillah !"  More  than  this, 
she  mentioned  Chetwynde !  She  reproached  this 
girl  for  running  away  from  Chetwynde  Castle ! 
And  to  all  this  Miss  Lorton  said  nothing,  but 
accepted  these  fond  reproaches  in  8U(;h  a  way 
that  she  made  it  seem  as  though  she  herself  must 
once  in  very  deed  have  li\ed  in  Chetwynde  Cas- 
tle, and  fled  from  it.  Mrs.  Hart  called  her  "  Zil- 
lah I"  To  whom  did  that  .strange  name  belong? 
To  one,  and  to  one  alone.  That  one  was  the 
daughter  of  General  I'omeroy,  whom  he  had 
married,  and  who  was  now  his  wife.  That  one 
he  hated  with  a  hate  which  no  feeling  of  dnty 
and  no  bond  of  gratitude  coidd  either  lessen  or 
overcome.  Was  he  not  married  ?  Had  he  not 
seen  that  wife  of  his  a  thousand  times?  Had  he 
not  associated  with  her  at  Chetwynde  Castle,  at 
Lausanne,  on  the  road,  and  in  Florence  ?  What 
madness,  what  mockery  was  this  ?  It  would 
seem  as  though  Mrs.  Hart  had  mistaken  Miss 
Lorton  for  that  detested  wife  who  stood  between 
him  and  his  love.  But  how  could  such  a  mis- 
take be  made  ?  True,  the  complexion  of  each 
was  dark,  and  the  hair  of  each  was  black,  and  the 
forms  and  figures  were  not  utdike ;  but  the  feat- 
ures were  widely  different ;  the  large,  soft,  lov- 
ing eyes  of  Miss  Lorton  were  not  like  those 
gleaming,  fiery  orbs  that  he  had  seen  in  the  wo- 
man whom  he  thought  his  wife  ;  and  the  expres- 
sion of  the  face  in  each  was  as  unlike  as  possible. 
Could  Mrs.  Hart  be  in  a  delirium  ?  She  must  be 
mad !  But  then  the  worst  of  it  was,  that  if  she 
were  mad  Miss  Lorton  must  be  mad  also. 

"Where  am  I?"  said  Mrs.  Hart,  rousing  her- 
self, and  breaking  in  upon  Lord  Chetwyndo's 
thoughts.    "  It  seems  to  me  that  I  have  sudden- 


ly escaped  from  a  hell,  where  I  have  been  living, 
and  have  come  into  heaven.  Where  am  1  ? 
How  is  it  that  I  find  myself  among  those  whom 
I  hold  most  dear?  Oh,  my  old  friend!  my 
savior!  my  benefactor!  tell  me,  are  you  really 
a  living  being?" 

"Nothing  shorter,"  replied  Obed,  solemnly, 
"  to  the  best  of  my  knowledge  and  belief,  though 
at  the  present  moment  I  feel  inclined  to  doubt 
it." 

"My  boj',  give  me  your  hand.  Do  I  really 
hold  it?     Am  I  not  dreaming?' 

"No,  my  dear  old  nurse.  I  am  really  alive, 
and  you  are  alive,  and  I  am  really  your  boy — 
your  Guy — though  hang  me  if  I  understand  all 
this!" 

"Zillah,  my  sweet  child,  give  me  your  hand 
too.  You  have  become  reconciled  to  him,  then. 
I  see  how  it  is.  Ah !  how  dear  you  are  to  one 
another!  My  God!  what  blessedness  is  this! 
And  yet  I  thought  that  you  had  fled  from  him, 
and  left  him  forever.  But  he  found  you.  You 
are  reunited  once  more." 

She  placed  Zillah 's  hand  in  Lord  Chetwynde's, 
and  Lord  Chetwynde  held  it  closely,  firmly,  in 
a  passionate  grasp,  not  knowing  what  all  this 
meant,  yet  in  his  vehement  love  willing  to  take 
blindly  all  that  might  be  given  to  him,  even 
though  it  came  to  him  through  the  delirium  of 
his  old  nurse.  He  held  it  tightly,  though  Zil- 
lah in  a  kind  of  terror  tried  to  withdraw  it.  He 
held  it,  for  something  told  him  in  the  midst  of 
his  bewilderment  that  it  was  his. 

Tears  flowed  from  Mrs.  Hart's  eyes.  There 
was  a  deep  silence  around.  At  last  Obed  Chute 
spoke. 

"  My  Christian  friends," said  he,  "it's been  my 
lot  and  my  privilege  to  attend  the  theatre  in  my 
youthful  days,  and  I've  often  seen  what  they  call 
situations ;  but  of  all  the  onparalleled  situations 
that  were  ever  ))ut  upon  the  boards,  from  '7<i 
down  to  '.")9,  I'll  be  hanged  if  this  isn't  the  great- 
est, the  grandest,  and  the  most  bewildering. 
I'm  floored.  I  give  up.  Henceforth  Obed  Chute 
exists  no  longer.  He  is  dead.  Hie  jacet.  In 
mernoriam.  E  pluribus  ununi.  You  may  be 
Mr.  Windham,  and  you,  my  child,  may  be  Miss 
Lorton,  or  you  may  not.  You  may  be  somebody 
else.  We  may  all  be  somebody  else.  I'm  some- 
body else.  I'll  be  hanged  if  I'm  myself.  To 
my  dying  day  I  don't  expect  to  understand  this. 
Don't  try  to  explain  it,  1  beg.  If  you  do  I  shall 
go  mad.  The  only  thing  I  do  understand  just 
now  is  this,  that  our  fiicnd  Mrs.  Hart  is  very 
weak,  and  needs  rest,  and  rest  she  shall  accord- 
ingly have.  Come,"  he  continued,  turning  to 
her ;  "  you  will  have  time  to-morrow  to  see 
them  again.  Take  a  little  rest  now.'  You  have 
called  me  your  friend  several  times  to-day.  I 
claim  a  friend's  privilege.  You  must  lie  down 
by  yourself,  if  it's  only  for  half  an  hour.  Don't 
refuse  me.     I'd  do  as  much  for  you." 

Obed's  manner  shoKvcd  that  same  tender  com- 
passion which  he  had  already  evinced.  Mrs. 
Hart  comjjlied  with  his  request.  She  rose  and 
took  his  arm. 

"Tell  me  one  thing  plainly, "  said  Obed,  as 
Mrs.  Hart  stood  up.  "  Who  are  these?  Is  not 
this  Mr.  Windham,  and  is  not  this  Miss  Lorton? 
If  not,  who  are  they?  That's  fair,  I  think.  T 
don't  want  to  be  in  the  dark  amidst  such  uni- 
versal light." 


246 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


"Is  it  possible  that  you  don't  know?"  said 
Mrs.  Hurt,  wonderingly.  "Why  siiould  they 
conceal  it  from  you  ?  These  are  my  dearest 
children — my  friends — the  ones  dear  to  my  heart. 
Oh,  my  friend,  you  will  understand  me.  This  is 
Lord  Chetwynde,  non  of  the,  Karl  of  (Jhetwymle, 
and  this  girl  is  Zilluh,  daughter  of  Neville  I'ome- 
roy — Lady  Chetwynde — his  wife." 

"  God  in  heaven !"  excliiimed  Obed  Cluite. 
"Is  tliis  so,  or  are  you  mad,  and  are  they 
madV" 

"I  do  not  know  what  you  mean,"  suid  Mrs. 
Hart.     "  I  have  spoken  the  truth.     It  is  so." 

Obed  said  not  another  word,  but  led  her  out 
of  the  room,  with  his  strong  brain  in  a  state  of 
bewilderment  greater  than  ever,  and  surpassing 
any  thing  that  he  had  known  before. 

Lord  (Chetwynde  war  left  alone  with  Zillah, 
holding  her  hand,  to  which  he  still  clung — though 
Zillah  in  her  deep  embarrassment  tried  to  with- 
draw it — and  looking  at  her  with  eagerness  yet 
peri)Iexity. 

"Great  Heaven!"  he  cried.  "Do  you  un- 
deretand  this?  Oh,  my  love!  my  own!  my  dar- 
ling !     What  is  the  meaning  of  it  all  ?" 

"I  don't  know,"  stammered  Zilluh,  in  con- 
fusion.    "  Don't  you  know  ?" 

"It's  a  mockery.  It's  her  delirium,"  cried 
Lord  Chetwynde,  passionately.  "  Some  tanta- 
lizing demon  has  put  this  into  her  wandering 
mind.  But  oh !  my  dearest,  something  must  be 
true;  at  least  you  knew  her  before." 

"Yes,"  said  Zillah. 

"Where?"  cried  Lord  Chetwynde. 

"At  Chetwynde  Castle,"  said  Zillah,  faintly. 

"  At  Chetwvnde  Castle?" 

"Yes." 

"Oh,  Heavens!  Chetwynde  Castle!  What 
is  this  ?  Can  it  be  a  mockery  ?  What  does  it 
all  mean  ?  You  !  you !  You  of  all  others !  my 
own !  my  darling !  You  can  never  deceive  me,  ' 
he  cried,  in  piercing  tones.  "Tell  me,  and  tell 
me  truly,  what  were  you  doing  in  Chetwynde 
Castle?'' 

"Living  there,"  said  Zillah.  "I  lived  there 
for  years,  till  the  Earl  died,  and  then  I  left,  for 
certain  reasons." 

"  Great  God!  What  is  it  that  you  are  say- 
ing?"   He  gasped  for  breath. 

"Only  the  truth,"  said  Zillah. 

Lord  Chetwynde  held  her  hand  still ;  his  eyes 
seemed  to  devour  her  in  the  intensity  of  their 
gaze.  A  thousand  bewildering  questions  were 
in  his  mind.  What !  Was  not  his  wife  even 
now  in  Florence?  Was  he  not  familiar  with 
•  her  face  ?  What  did  this  mean  ?  What  ut- 
ter mockery  was  this !  Yet  every  word  of  Zil- 
lah's  went  to  corroborate  the  words  of  Mrs. 
Hart. 

As  for  Zillah,  she  saw  his  embarrassment, 
but  interpreted  it  falsely.  "  He  is  beginning  to 
think,"  she  thought,  "  that  I  am  the  one  to  whom 
he  was  married.  His  old  ^ate  and  abhorrence 
are  returning.  He  is  afraid  to  make  himself 
sure  of  it.  He  loves  Miss  Lorton,  but  hates  the 
daughter  of  General  Pomeroy.  When  he  finds 
out  who  I  am  he  will  loathe  me."  Then  while 
Lord  Chetwynde  stood  silent  in  astonishment 
and  bewilderment,  not  understanding  how  it  was 
]K)ssible  for  these  things  to  be,  the  thought  flashed 
npon  her  mind  about  that  last  letter.  He  had 
loved  another.    Inez  Cameron  was  his  true  love. 


She  herself  was  nothing.  Bitterly  came  this  re- 
menibronce  to  her  mind.  She  saw  herself  now 
cast  out  from  bis  lienrt,  ond  the  love  that  had 
awakened  woidd  die  out  forever.  And  in  that 
moment,  ns  these  thoughts  rushed  through  her 
mind,  as  siie  recalled  the  words  of  tlnit  hist  letter, 
the  scorn  and  insults  that  were  hcajied  upon  lier- 
self,  and,  above  all,  the  fervent  love  that  wjis  ex- 
pressed for  another — as  she  brought  these  things 
back  which  had  once  been  so  bitter,  one  by  one 
— hope  departed,  and  despair  settled  over  her 
heart. 

But  Lord  Chetwynde  clung  to  her  hand.  The 
thoughts  of  iiis  heart  were  widely  different  from 
those  of  hers,  and  her  despair  was  exceeded  by 
his  own.  Who  she  was  and  what  she  was  he 
could  not  understand ;  but  the  thought  that  he 
had  a  wife,  and  that  his  wife  was  General  Pome- 
roy's  daughter,  was  immovable  in  his  mind. 

"My  darling!"  he  cried,  in  imploring  tones, 
in  which  there  was  at  the  same  time  a  world  of 
love  and  tenderness;  " my  own  darling !  You 
know  well  that  for  you  I  would  give  up  all  my 
life  and  all  my  hope,  and  every  thing  that  I  have. 
For  you,  oh !  my  sweet  love,  I  have  trampled 
upon  honor  and  duty,  and  have  turned  my  back 
upon  the  holy  memories  of  my  father !  For  you 
I  have  stifled  my  conscience  and  denied  my 
God!  Oh!  my  own,  my  only  love,  listen  and 
answer.  In  the  name  of  God,  and  by  all  your 
hopes  of  heaven,  I  implore  you  to  answer  me 
truly  this  one  question.  Who  are  you  ?  What 
is  your  name?  How  is  it  that  Mrs.  Hart  has 
made  this  mi.stake?" 

And  as  Lord  Chetwynde  gave  utterance  to 
this  appeal  there  was  in  his  voice  an  anguish  of 
entreaty,  as  though  his  very  life  himg  upon  her 
answer.  It  thrilled  to  the  inmost  soul  of  Zillah, 
who  herself  was  wrought  up  to  an  excitement 
which  was  equal  to  his,  if  not  superior. 

"Mrs.  Hart  has  mad-"  no  mistake,"  replied 
Zillah,  in  low,  solemn  to  s;  "she  has  spoken 
the  truth.  As  you  have  asked,  so  must  I  an- 
swer. In  the  name  of  God,  then,  I  tell  you. 
Lord  Chetwynde,  that  I  am  Zillah,  daughter  of 
General  Pomeroy,  ond — your  wife .'" 

"Oh,  my  God !"  cried  Lord  Chetwynde,  with 
a  deep  groan. 

He  dropped  her  hand.  He  staggered  back, 
and  looked  at  her  with  a  face  in  which  there  was 
nothing  else  than  horror. 

What  was  then  in  his  mind  Zillah  could  not 
possibly  know.  She  therefore  interpreted  that 
look  of  his  from  her  own  knowledge  and  sus- 
picions only.  She  read  in  it  only  his  own  un- 
conquerable hate,  his  invincible  aversion  to  her, 
which  now,  at  the  mention  of  her  true  name,  had 
revived  in  all  its  original  force,  and  destroyed 
utterly  the  love  which  he  had  professed.  All 
was  lost!  lost!  lost!  lost!  and  doubly  lost! 
Better  far  never  to  have  seen  him  than,  having 
seen  him  and  known  him  and  loved  him,  to  lose 
him  thus.  Such  were  her  thoughts.  Already 
her  emotion  had  been  overwhelming ;  this  was 
the  last,  and  it  was  too  much.  With  a  low 
moan  o.'  entreaty  and  of  despair  she  wailed  out 
the  name  which  she  loved  so  much.  It  was  that 
word  "Windham,"  which  he  had  made  so  sweet 
to  her. 

Saying  this,  and  with  that  moan  of  despair, 
she  threw  up  her  arms  wildly,  and  sank  down 
senseless  at  his  feet. 


■% 


THE  CllYPTOGRAM. 


247 


CHAPTER  LXXVI. 

Hilda's   last  venturb. 

When  Obed  Chute  came  buck  he  found  Lord 
Ohetwynde  liolding  Zilhih  in  hix  arms,  pressing 
her  to  his  heart,  and  lool(ing  wildly  around  with 
u  face  of  agony.  '* Quick!  quick!"  he  cried. 
"  Water,  for  God's  sake !  She  a  fainted !  iSlie's 
dying!     Quick!" 

In  a  moment  a  dozen  servants  were  summon- 
ed, and  Zillah  was  plied  with  restoratives  till  she 
revived  again.  She  cnme  back  to  sense  and  to 
life,  but  hope  was  dead  within  her ;  and  even  the 
sight  of  Lord  Chetwynde's  face  of  agony,  and  his 
half-frantic  words,  could  not  lessen  her  despair. 
She  implored  to  be  carried  to  her  room,  and  there 
she  was  at  once  taken.  Lord  Chetwynde's  an- 
guish was  now  not  less  than  hers.  With  bitter 
self-reproach,  and  in  terrible  bewilderment,  he 
wandered  ott'  into  the  west  gallery,  whither  Obed 
Chute  followed  him,  but,  seeing  his  agitation,  re- 
frained from  saying  any  thing.  Lord  Chetwynde 
was  lost  in  an  abyss  of  despair.  In  the  midst  of 
his  agony  for  Zillah's  sake  he  tried  in  vain  to  com- 
prehend how  this  Miss  Lorton  could  believe  her- 
self to  be  General  Pomeroy's  daughter  and  his 
own  wife,  when,  as  he  very  well  knew,  his  own 
wife  was  at  her  lodgings  in  Florence — that  wife 
whom  he  hated,  but  who  yet  had  saved  him  from 
death  in  Switzerland,  and  was  now  living  on  his 
smiles  in  Italy.  How  could  one  like  Miss  Lor- 
ton make  such  a  mistake?  Or  how  could  she 
violate  all  delicacy  by  asserting  such  a  thing? 
Clearly  somebody  was  mad.  Perhaps  he  him- 
self was  mad.  But  as  he  felt  himself  to  be  in 
his  sober  senses,  and  not  dreaming,  he  tried  to 
think  whether  madness  should  be  attributed  to 
Mrs.  Hart  or  Miss  Lorton,  on  the  one  hand, or 
to  his  wife  on  the  other.  The  problem  was  in- 
soluble. Madness,  he  thought,  must  certainly 
be  somewhere.  But  where  ?  AH  seemed  to  be 
concerned.  Mrs.  Hart  had  recognized  Miss  Lor- 
ton, and  Miss  Lorton  had  returned  that  recog- 
nition. Somebody  must  be  feari'ully  mistaken. 
What  was  to  bo  done?  In  the  midst  of  this  his 
whole  being  thrilled  at  the  recollection  of  those 
words  in  which  Miss  Lorton  had  claimed  to  be 
his  wife.  His  wife!  And  she  must  herself  have 
believed  this  at  the  time ;  otherwise  she  would 
have  died  rather  than  have  uttered  those  words. 
But  what  would  his  real  wife  say  to  all  this? 
That  was  his  final  thought. 

Meanwhile  Obed  Chute  said  not  a  word.  L 
saw  Lord  Chetwynde's  emotion,  and,  with  his 
usual  delicacy  of  feeling,  did  not  intrude  upon 
him  at  such  a  time,  though  himself  filled  with 
undiminished  wonder.  The  first  excitement  was 
over,  ceitainly,  yet  the  wonder  remained  none 
the  less ;  and  while  Lord  Chetwynde  was  pacing 
the  long  gallery  restlessly  and  wildly,  Obed  sat 
meditative,  pondering  upon  the  possibilities  of 
things.  Yet  the  more  he  thought  the  less  was 
he  able  to  unravel  these  mysteries. 

At  last  he  thought  that  a  walk  outside  would 
bo  better.  A  quiet  smoke  would  assist  medita- 
tion. His  brain  could  always  work  more  prompt- 
ly when  a  pipe  was  in  his  mouth.  He  therefore 
went  off  to  prepare  this  invaluable  companion 
for  the  walk  which  he  designed,  and  was  even 
filling  his  pipe,  when  he  was  aroused  by  the  en- 
trance of  a  servant,  who  announced  that  a  lady 
hnd  just  arrived,  and  wished  to  see  him  on  very 


particular  business.  Saying  this,  the  servant 
handed  him  her  card.  Obed  looked  at  it,  and 
read  the  following  name : 

''Lady  Chetwynde." 


CHAPTER  LXXVII. 

THE  CRYPTOGRAM  DECIPHKRED. 

Hitherto,  and  up  to  that  last  moment  just 
spoken  of,  this  whole  affair  had  been  one  long 
puzzle  to  Obed,  one,  too,  which  was  exceedingly 
unpleasant  and  utterly  incomprehensible.  While 
Lord  Chetwynde  had  been  pacing  the  gallery  in 
a  fever  of  agitation,  Obed  had  been  a  prey  to 
thoughts  less  intense  and  less  painful,  no  doubt, 
but  yet  equally  perplexing.  He  had  been  sum- 
ming up  in  his  mind  the  general  outlines  of  this 
giand  mystery,  and  the  results  were  something 
like  this : 

First,  there  was  the  fact  that  these  three  were 
all  old  friends,  or,  at  least,  that  two  of  them 
were  equally  dear  to  Mrs.  Hart. 

Secondly,  that  on  the  appearance  of  Mrs. 
Hart  each  was  unable  to  account  for  the  emo- 
tion of  the  other. 

Thirdly,  that  Miss  Lorton  and  Windham  had 
been  living  under  assumed  names  ever  since  he 
had  known  them. 

Fourthly,  that  Miss  Lorton  and  Windham  had 
hitherto  been  uncommonly  fond  of  one  another's 
society. 

Fifthly,  that  thia  was  not  surprising,  since 
Windham  had  saved  Miss  Lorton  from  a  fright- 
ful death. 

Sixthly,  what  ?  Why  this,  that  Mrs.  Hart  had 
solemnly  declared  that  Windham  was  not  Wind- 
ham at  all,  but  Guy  Molyneux,  son  of  the  late 
Earl  of  Chetwynde ;  and  that  Miss  Lorton  was 
not  Miss  Lorton,  but  Zillah,  datighter  of  Neville 
Pomeroy,  and  wife  of  Lord  Chetwynde ! 

The  Earl  of  Chetwynde !  Neville  Pomeroy ! 
Did  any  of  these,  except  Mrs.  Hart,  know,  did 
they  have  the  remotest  suspicion  of  the  profound 
meaning  which  these  names  had  to  Obed  Chute  ? 
Did  they  know  or  suspect  ?  Know  or  suspect  ? 
Why,  they  evidently  knew  nothing,  and  suspected 
nothing !  Had  they  not  been  warm  friends — or 
something  more,  as  Obed  now  began  to  think — 
for  months,  while  neither  one  knew  the  other  as 
any  thing  else  than  that  which  was  assumed  ? 

It  was  a  puzzle. 

It  was  something  that  required  an  uncommon 
exercise  of  brain.  Such  an  exercise  demanded 
also  an  uncommon  stimulus  to  that  brain ;  and 
therefore  Obed  had  gone  up  for  his  pipe.  It 
was  while  preparing  this  that  the  card  had  come. 

"  Lady  Chetwynde !" 

His  first  impulse  was  to  give  a  long,  low 
whistle.  After  this  he  arose  in  silence  and  went 
down  to  the  chief  room.  A  lady  was  sitting 
there,  who  rose  as  he  entered.  Obed  bowed  low 
and  looked  at  her  earnestly  as  he  seated  himself. 

"  I  hope.  Sir,"  said  the  lady,  in  a  clear,  music- 
al voice,  "  thot  you  will  excuse  the  liberty  which 
I  have  taken ;  but  the  object  that  brings  me  here 
is  one  of  such  importonce  that  I  have  been  com- 
pelled to  come  in  person.  It  was  only  of  late 
that  I  learned  that  you  were  residing  here,  and 
as  soon  as  I  heard  it  I  came  to  see  yon." 

Obed  Chute  bowed  again,  bnt  said  not  a  word. 


MS 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


His  hcwiUlerment  was  yet  strong,  and  lie  did  not 
wisii  to  commit  tiimself.  'VUif  lady  was  lieaiiti- 
fid,  and  graceful  in  her  manner.  She  called 
herself  Lady  Chetwynde.  The  name  ptiz/.lud 
him,  and,  in  addition  to  the  other  pii/./.le  that  hud 
visited  him  on  this  eventful  day,  was  hard  to  be 
borne.  JSut  he  bore  it  bravely,  and  was  silent. 
In  his  -.ilence  he  regarded  his  visitor  with  the 
closest  scrutiny.  At  the  first  glance  he  had 
marked  her  heanty.  A  further  observation 
showed  that  she  was  agitated,  that  she  was  pale, 
and  bore  marks  of  suffering.  She  was  a  woman 
in  distress.  In  the  midst  of  Obcd's  peii)lcxity  the 
discovery  of  thi':  aroused  his  chivalrous  sympathy. 

This  was  Hilda's  last  venture,  and  she  felt  it 
to  bo  such.  She  had  come  out  with  the  expecta- 
tion of  finding  Gualtier  on  the  road,  and  of  re- 
ceiving some  message  from  him.  She  had  seen 
nothing  of  him.  She  had  waited  about  half  an 
hour  on  the  road,  till  she  could  wait  no  longer, 
and  then  she  had  gone  onward.  She  thought 
that  (lualtier  might  have  failed  her,  but  such  a 
thing  seemed  so  improbable  that  she  began  to 
fear  some  disaster.  Perhaps  he  had  fallen  n 
victim  to  his  devotion.  The  thought  of  this 
troubled  her,  and  increased  her  agitation ;  and 
now,  when  she  found  herself  in  the  presence  of 
Obed  Chute,  her  agitation  was  so  marked  as  to 
1)6  visil)le  to  him.  Yet,  as  far  as  he  w  ■»  con- 
cerned, this  agitation  only  served  to  favor  her 
cause  in  his  eyes. 

"  Mr.  Chute,"  said  Hilda,  in  low,  steady 
tones,  ''I  am  Lady  Chetwynde.  1  am  the 
daughter  of  General  Pomeroy,  once  ('aptain 
Pomeroy,  whom  you  knew.  He  died  a  few 
years  ago,  and  on  his  death-bed  arranged  a  mar- 
riage between  me  and  the  only  son  of  the  Imy\ 
of  Chetwynde.  It  was  a  sudden  marriage.  He 
insisted  on  it.  He  was  dying,  and  his  wishes 
could  not  be  denied.  I  yielded,  and  was  mar- 
ried. My  husband  left  me  immediately  after  the 
marriage  ceremony,  and  went  to  India,  where  ho 
remained  for  years.  He  only  returned  a  short 
time  ago.  My  father,  (ieneral  Pomeroy,  died, 
and  the  Earl  of  Chetwynde  took  me  to  live  with 
him.  I  lived  with  him  for  years.  I  was  a 
daughter  to  him,  and  he  loved  me  as  one.  He 
died  in  my  arms.  I  was  alone  in  the  world  till 
his  son,  the  yoimg  Earl,  came  home.  Pardon 
me  for  mentioning  these  family  details,  but  they 
are  necessary  in  order  to  explain  my  position 
and  to  prepare  the  way  for  those  things  which  I 
have  to  say. " 

Hilda  paused  for  a  while.  Obed  said  nothing, 
but  listened  with  an  unchanged  face. 

"Not  long  after  my  father's  death,"  said 
Hilda,  "  1  went  to  pay  a  visit  to  my  old  home, 
Pomeroy  Court.  1  happened  to  look  into  my 
father's  desk  one  day,  and  there  I  fouiul  some 
papers.  One  of  them  was  a  writing  in  cipher, 
and  the  rest  consisted  of  letters  written  by  one 
who  signed  himself  Obed  Vkute,  and  who  wrote 
from  New  York.  All  related  to  the  wife  of  the 
Earl." 

Hilda  stopped  again,  and  waited  to  see  the  ef- 
fect of  this.  But  ( )be(l  said  nothing,  nor  could 
she  see  in  his  face  any  indication  of  any  emotion 
whatever. 

' '  That  writing  in  cipher,"  she  continued,  "  dis- 
turbed me.  The  letters  were  of  such  a  charac- 
ter that  they  filled  me  with  uneasiness,  and  I 
thought  that  the  writing  in  cipher  would  explain 


all.  I  therefore  tried  to  decipher  it.  I  obtained 
books  on  the  subject,  and  studied  up  the  way  by 
which  such  things  may  be  unraveled.  I  applied 
myself  to  this  task  for  months,  and  at  last  suc- 
ceeded in  my  object.  I  never  felt  certain,  how- 
ever, that  1  had  deciphered  it  rightly,  nor  do  I 
yet  feel  certain ;  but  what  I  did  tind  out  had  a 
remarkable  connection  with  the  letters  which  ac- 
companied it,  and  increased  the  alarm  which  I 
felt.  Then  I  tried  to  find  out  about  you,  but 
could  not.  You  alone,  I  thought,  could  explain 
this  mystery.  It  was  a  thing  which  tilled  me 
with  horror.  I  can  not  tell  you  how  awful  were 
the  fears  that  arose,  ai»;l  how  intolerable  were 
the  suspicions.  But  J  could  never  get  any  ex- 
planation. Now  these  things  ha\c  never  ceased 
to  trouble  me,  and  they  always  will  until  they 
are  explained. 

' '  Yesterday  I  hapjiened  to  hear  your  name 
mentioned.  It  startled  me.  I  made  in(iuiries, 
and  found  that  a  person  who  bore  that  name 
which  was  so  familiar  to  me,  and  aimut  which  I 
had  made  such  inquiries — Obed  Chute— was  liv- 
ing here.  I  at  once  resolved  to  come  out  anil 
see  you  in  person,  so  as  to  ask  you  what  it  all 
means,  and  put  an  end,  in  some  way  or  other, 
to  my  suspense. " 

This  recital  iirodnced  a  strong  ef^'ect  on  Obed, 
yet  no  expression  of  his  face  told  whether  that 
efi'ect  was  favorable  or  imfavorablc.  Earnestly 
Hilda  watched  his  face  as  she  spoke,  so  as  to  rend 
if  possible  her  fate,  yet  she  found  it  impossible. 
His  face  remained  stolid  and  impassive,  though 
she  saw  this  much,  that  he  was  listening  to  her 
with  the  deepest  attenticm.  What  was  most  per- 
plexing was  the  fact  that  Obed  did  not  say  one 
single  word. 

In  fact,  in  this  position,  he  did  not  know  what 
to  say.  So  he  ditl  the  very  best  thing  that  he 
could,  and  said  nothing.  Hut  the  mystery  that 
had  begun  that  day  with  the  advent  of  Mrs.  Hart 
was  certainly  deejKsning.  It  was  already  un- 
fathomable when  Mrs.  Hart  had  said  that  Zillah 
was  Lady  CJhetwynde,  and  that  Windham  wa> 
Lord  Chetwynde.  Here,  however,  came  one  who 
made  it  still  more  hopelessly  and  inextricably 
entangled  by  calmly  announcing  herself  as  Lady 
Chetwynde ;  and  not  only  so,  but  adding  to  it 
an  account  of  her  life.  VVhich  was  the  true  one  'r 
Mrs.  Hart  could  not  lie.  She  did  not  seem  to 
be  insane.  About  Zillah  there  had  certainly  been 
a  mystery,  but  she  could  not  deceive.  He  be- 
gan to  have  vague  ideas  that  Lord  Chetwynde's 
morals  had  become  affected  by  his  Indian  life, 
and  that  he  had  a  great  number  of  wives ;  but 
then  he  remembered  that  this  woman  claimed 
to  be  General  Pomeroy's  daughter,  which  Mrs. 
Hart  had  also  sold  of  Zillah.  So  the  problem 
was  as  dark  as  ever.  He  began  to  see  that  he 
was  incapable  of  dealing  with  this  subject,  and 
that  Mrs.  Hart  alone  could  explain. 

Hilda,  after  some  delay,  went  on  : 

"  I  have  mentioned  my  attempt  to  discover  the 
cipher  writing, "  said  she.  ' '  My  deciphering  was 
such  that  it  seemed  to  involve  my  father  in  a  very 
heavy  charge.  It  made  me  think  that  he  had 
been  guilty  of  some  awfid  crime. " 

"Your  father,  (ienernl  Pomeroy?" 

Obed  Chute  uttered  this  suddenly,  and  with 
deep  surprise. 

Hilda  started,  and  then  snid,  verv  placidly, 
"Yes." 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


240 


"  And  you  tlinught  that  lie  might  he  guilty  of 
'  awful  crimes  ?' " 

"I  feared  HO." 

"  Had  von  lived  any  time  with  vour  fatlier?" 

"Allniyhfe." 

Ohed  Chute  said  nothing  more,  though  Hilda 
Reemed  to  expect  it ;  go,  finding  him  Hilent,  »ihc 
wont  on  without  regarding  him ;  though,  if  she 
had  known  this  man,  siie  would  have  seen  that 
hy  tiioso  words  she  ut  once  lost  all  that  sym- 
pathy and  consideration  which  thus  far  he  had 
felt  for  her. 

"On  deciphering  that  paper  of  which  I  have 
spoken  I  foinid  tiiat  it  charged  my  father,  Gen- 
eral I'omeroy,  with  several  crimes,  all  equally 
abhorrent.  I  will  show  you  the  paper  itself,  and 
my  interpretation  of  it  line  by  line,  so  that  you 
may  see  for  yourself  the  agony  that  such  i  dis- 
covery would  naturally  produce  in  the  mind  of 
a  daughter.  I  will  also  show  you  those  letters 
which  you  yourself  wrote  to  my  father  many 
years  ago." 

Saying  this,  Hilda  produced  .some  ytnpers, 
which  she  laid  on  the  table  before  Obed  ("liute. 

The  first  was  the  writing  in  cipher. 

The  second  was  her  own  interpretation,  such 
as  she  had  alreadv  shown  to  Gualtier  and  to  Zil- 
lah. 

The  tiiird  was  the  same  thing,  written  out  line 
by  line  for  the  sake  of  legibility,  as  follows  : 

Oh  viay  God  have  mercy  on  my  wretched  Houl    A  men 

0  I'omeroy  forged  a  hundred  thmisand  dollarn 

O  y  Pomerny  eloped  irith  poor  Lady  Chetwynde  \ 

She  acted  out  of  a  mad  impulne  in  flying 

She  liittened  to  me  aiul  rati  of  irilh  me 

She  toon piiiiied  at  her  husband'H  act 

Fell  in  with  Lady  Mary  Chet'.cyiui 

Kxpelled  the  army  for  gamituf 

y  Potneroy  of  I'omeroy  Berk» 

0  I  am  a  'miHerahlc  cillain 

Along  with  these  she  put  down  a  paper  which 
contained  her  key  for  deciphering  this. 

Finally  she  laid  down  those  letters  written  by 
Obed  Chute,  which  have  already  been  given.        I 

All  these  Obed  Chnte  examined  carefully. 
The  cipher  writing  he  looked  at,  compared  it 
with  the  key,  and  then  with  the  interj)retation 
written  by  Hilda.  As  she  looked  anxiously  at 
his  face  it  struck  her  that  when  he  took  up  that 
cipher  writing  it  seemed  as  though  he  was  famil- 
iar with  it.  For  such  a  thing  she  was  not  un- 
prepared. Obed  t'hute's  connection  with  this 
business  was  mysterious  to  her,  but  it  had  been 
of  such  a  nature  that  he  might  be  able  to  read 
this  pajier,  and  know  the  fullness  of  its  mei\ning. 
After  readiijg  those  letters  which  had  been  writ- 
ten by  himself — among  which,  however,  that 
latest  letter  which  Hilda  had  shown  Zillah  was 
not  to  be  seen — he  took  up  that  second  paper  in 
which  she  had  carefidly  written  out  in  capitals 
the  meaning  of  each  line,  such  as  has  already  '< 
been  given,  where  the  line  is  extended  by  char- 
acters which  are  not  interpreted.  Over  this  he 
looked  long  and  carefully,  frequently  comjjaring 
it  with  the  first  paper,  which  contained  only  the  : 
cijiher  itself. 

At  length  he  laid  down  the  papers  and  looked 
Hilda  full  in  the  face. 

"Did  it  ever  strike  yon,"  he  asked,  "that 
your  translation  was  slightly  rambling,  and  a  lit- 
tle incoherent  ?"' 

"  I  have  hoped  that  it  was,"  said  Hilda,  pa- 
thetically. 


"You  mny  be  assin'ed  of  it,"  said  Obed. 
"  Head  it  for  yourself,  and  think  for  a  moment 
whether  any  human  being  woidd  think  of  writ- 
ing such  stutf  as  that."  And  he  motioned  con- 
temptuously to  the  paper  where  her  intcrjiretatinn 
was  written  out.  "There's  no  meaning  in  it  ex- 
cept this,  which  I  have  now  noticed  for  the  first 
time — that  the  miserable  scoundrel  who  wrote 
this  has  done  it  so  as  to  throw  suspicion  upon 
the  man  whom  he  was  boinid  to  love  with  all  his 
contemptible  heart,  if  he  had  one,  which  he 
hadn't.     I  see  now.     The  infernal  sneak!" 

And  Obed,  glaring  ut  the  paper,  actiudly 
ground  his  teeth  in  rage.  At  length  lie  looked 
up,  and  calmly  said  : 

"Madam,  it  happens  that  in  this  interpreta- 
tion of  yours  you  are  totally  and  utterly  astray. 
In  your  deep  love  for  your  father" — and  here 
Hilda  imagined  a  sneer — ''you  will  be  rejoiced 
to  learn  this.  This  cipher  is  an  old  acquaint- 
ance. I  unraveled  it  all  many  years  ago — al- 
most before  you  were  born,  certainly  before  you 
ever  thought  of  ciphers.  I  have  all  the  papers 
by  me.  You  couldn't  have  come  to  a  hotter  per- 
son than  me — in  fact,  I'm  the  only  person,  I 
supp-^se,  that  you  could  come  to.  I  will  there- 
fore ex(ilain  the  whole  matter,  so  that  for  the 
rest  of  your  life  your  affectionate  and  guileless 
nature  may  no  longer  be  disturbed  by  those  lam- 
entable suspicions  which  you  have  cultivated 
about  the  noblest  gentleman  and  most  stainless 
soldier  that  ever  breathed." 

With  these  words  he  left  the  room,  and  short- 
ly returned  with  some  jiapers.  These  he  spread 
before  Hilda. 

One  was  the  cipher  itself — a  fac-simile  of  her 
own.  The  next  was  a  mass  of  letters,  written  out 
in  capitals  on  a  square  block.  Every  cipher  was 
written  out  here  in  its  Roman  eipiivalent. 

As  he  spread  this  out  Obed  showed  her  the 
true  character  of  it. 

"Yon  have  mistaken  it,"  he  said.  "  In  the 
cipher  there  is  a  double  alphabet.  The  up])er 
half  is  written  in  the  first,  the  lower  half  in  the 
second.  The  second  alphabet  has  most  of  the 
letters  of  the  first ;  those  of  most  frequent  oc- 
currence are  changed,  and  instead  of  astro- 
nomical signs,  punctuation  marks  are  used.  You 
have  succeeded,  I  see,  in  finding  the  key  to  the 
upper  part,  but  you  do  not  seem  to  have  thought 
that  the  lower  i)art  required  a  separate  examina- 
tion. You  seem  tf>  suppose  that  all  this  mass 
of  letters  is  unmeaning,  and  was  inserted  hy 
way  of  recreation  to  the  mind  that  was  wearied 
with  writing  the  first,  or  perhaps  to  mislead. 
Now  if  you  had  read  it  all  you  would  have  seen 
the  entire  truth.  The  man  that  wrote  this  was 
a  villain  :  he  has  written  it  so  that  the  ui)per  jiart 
throws  suspicion  upon  his  benefactor.  VVhether 
he  did  this  by  accident  or  on  purpose  the  Lord 
only  knows.  But,  to  my  personal  knowledge, 
he  was  about  the  meanest,  smallest,  sneakin'est 
rascal  that  it  was  ever  my  luck  to  light  on.  And 
yet  he  knew  what  honor  was,  and  diit)',  for  he 
had  associated  all  his  life  with  the  noblest  gen- 
tleman that  ever  lived.  But  I  will  say  no  more 
about  it.  fSee !  Here  is  the  full  translation  of 
the  whole  thing." 

And  he  laid  down  before  Hilda  another  paper, 
which  was  written  out  in  the  usual  manner. 

"If  you  look  at  the  first  paper,"  said  01)ed. 
pointing  to  the  one  which  gave  the  translation  of 


?  *>  t/» 


ur.o 

each    letter,   iil)ovo    de- 

Hcribod,    "you   will  .see 

that  tliti  tivHt  part  reailH 

like    your     traiislutioti, 

while  the  lower  part  ha.s 

no  meaning.    TIiIh  aroHe 

from  the  peculiar  nature 

of  the  man  who  wrote 

it.     lie  couldn't  do  any 

thing  Htraight.      When 

he  made  a  confeHsion  he 

wrote  it  in  cipher.  When 

he  wrote  in   cipher  he 

wrote  it  so  an  tu  puzxie 

and  mislead  any  one  who 

might  try  to  tind  it  out. 

He  couldn't  write  even 
a    cipher    straight,    but 

began  in  the  middle  and 
wound  all  his  lettera 
about  it.  Do  you  see 
that  letter  '  M'  in  the 
eleventli  line,  thetwelftii 
one  from  the  right  side, 
with  a  cross  by  the  siile 
of  it?  That  is  the  first 
letter.  You  must  read 
from  that,  but  toward  the 
left,  for  seventeen  letters, 
and  then  follow  on  the 
line  immediately  above 
it.  The  writing  then 
runs  on,  and  winds  about 
this  central  line  till  this 
rectangular  block  of  let- 
ters is  formed.  You  sup- 
posed that  it  read  on  like 
ordinary  writing.  You 
see  what  you  have  found 
out  is  only  those  lines 
that  happened  to  ho  the 
top  ones,  reading  in  the 
usual  way  from  left  to 
right.  Now  take  this 
first  paper.  Regin  at 
that  cross,  read  from 
right  to  left  for  seven- 
teen letters,  and  what 
do  you  find  ?" 

Hilda     did    so,    and 
slowly  spelled  out  this  : 
"MY    NAME    IS 
NOT  KRIKFF." 

A  shock  of  astonish- 
ment (lassed  through  her. 

"Krieff?"  shereiKsat-      <y\ ,».    fc. 
ed-"Krieff?"  ^    ^ 

"Yes,  Krieff,"  said 
Obed ;  "  that  was  his 
last  alias." 

"  Alias  ?  Krieff?" 
faltered  Hilda. 

"Yes.  He  had  one 
or  two  others,  but  this 
was  his  last." 

"  His  ?  Whose  ?  Who  is  it,  then,  that  wrote 
this?" 

"  Read  on.  But  it  is  not  worth  while  to  bother 
with  this  block  of  letters.  See;  I  have  this  pa- 
per where  it  is  all  written  out.  Read  this ;"  and 
he  handed  the  other  paper  to  Hilda. 

She  took  it  mechanically,  and  read  as  follows : 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM, 


o   c 


"iCk    Hw»m-'n»r»t/»^5»Ti< 


"1  Tt) 


"*  ^  r  3  JO   >   «-5mJJr2   t^'^o^x^n 


rK>i>r><^2r>Qj^ 


<   vs  Z 


•^r-J^bKr-    3rs?    3'|r 

^"^  -«<  •fc)dt^'»»s?   f^  -xi  ^  fo  ^  -2  >^0    >J 

H^    bf  >-tf»  T^  a-  H  0  «  Ca -fS   W?  >  '^  2 


"  My  name  is  not  Krieff.  I  am  a  miserable 
vill.'un,  but  I  was  once  named  Pemberton  I'ome- 
roy,  of  Pomeroy,  Berks.  I  fell  into  vice  early  in 
life,  and  was  expelled  the  army  for  gaming.  I 
changed  my  name  then  to  Redfield  Lyttoun.  I 
fell  in  with  Lady  Mary  Chetwynde.  She  was 
thoughtless,  and  liked  my  attentions.     I  knew 


' 


THK  CKYITOUUAM. 


2.11 


Rho  was  piqued  lU  her  hiiRband'*  act  in  leaving 
his  party  imd  loHiiiR  liin  prospectH.  Out  of  wpito 
hIic  li.steiicd  t<i  iiie  und  riiti  ott'Miili  me.  Neville 
followed  iiH  and  rescued  her  from  mo  before  it 
waH  t<H>  late.  She  acted  out  of  a  mad  impaUe 
ill  tlyiiifj,  and  roiKjnied  bitterly.  My  brother 
Havcii  her.  Let  all  know  tiiat  I,  I'cndierton 
I'oineroy,  eloped  with  poor  Lady  Chctwyndo, 
and  that  Hhe  was  Havcd  by  Neville  I'onicroy. 
Let  the  world  know,  too,  that  1,  I'omberton 
I'omcroy,  forged  a  hundred  thousand  dollnrx, 
and  my  brother  ]>aid  it,  and  saved  me.  I  write 
this  in  cipher,  and  am  u  villain  and  a  coward  too. 

"Oil,  may  God  iiave  mercy  on  my  wretched 
soul!     Amen." 

( )n  reading  this  Hilda  then  compared  it  with 
the  otiior  paper.     S\\o  naw  at  once  that  the  lines 
which  slie  had  translated  wore  only  fragmentary 
portions  that  happened  to  read  from  left  to  right. 
Doubt   was  impossible,   and   this   which   ()bed 
Chute  gave  her  was  the  truth.     Hhe  laid  the  |)a-  i 
per  down,  and  looked  thoughtfully  away.    'J'liere  j 
were  several  things  here  which  disturbed  her,  j 
but  above  all  there  was  the  name  mentioned  at  j 
the  outset.     For  she  saw  that  the  man  who  had  ; 
written  tiiis  had  once  gone  by  the  name  of  Kriett". 

"  I  think  it  my  duty,"  said  (^bed  Chute,  "to 
give  you  a  full  explanation,  since  you  have  asked 
it.  The  part'"  concerned  are  now  all  dead, 
and  you  claim  to  be  the  daughter  of  one  of  them. 
There  is  erefore  no  reason  why  1  should  not 
tell  you  all  that  I  know.  I  have  made  up  my 
mind  to  do  ho,  and  I  will. 

"  Neville  I'omeroy,  then,  was  nn  English  gen- 
tleman. 1  have  seen  much  of  livitishers,  and 
iiave  generally  found  that  in  n  time  of  trial  the 
Knglisli  gentleman  comes  out  uncommonly  strong. 
I  got  acquainted  with  him  in  an  odd  kind  i(f  way. 
lie  was  a  young  fellow,  and  had  come  out  to 
America  to  hunt  bufl'aloes.  I  happened  to  be 
on  the  IMains  at  the  same  time.  I  was  out  for  a 
small  excursion,  for  the  ofHce  at  New  York  was 
not  the  kind  of  place  where  a  fellow  of  my  size 
could  be  content  all  the  time.  We  heard  a  great 
row — guns  firing,  Indians  yelling,  and  conject- 
ured that  the  savages  were  attacking  some  party 
or  other.  We  dashed  on  for  a  mile  or  (avo,  and 
came  to  a  hollow.  About  fifty  rascally  Sioux 
were  there.  They  had  surrounded  two  or  three 
whites,  and  captured  them,  and  were  preparing 
to  strip  each  for  the  puqrase  of  indulging  in  u 
little  amusement  they  have — that  is,  building  a 
fire  on  one's  breast.  They  didn't  do  it  that  time, 
at  any  rate;  and  the  fight  that  followed  when  we 
came  up  was  the  prettiest,  without  exception, 
that  1  ever  saw.  We  drove  them  off,  at  any 
rate ;  and  as  we  had  revolvers,  and  they  had  only 
common  rifles,  we  had  it  all  our  own  way. 
Tliirty  of  those  Sioux  devils  were  left  behind, 
dead  and  wounded,  and  the  rest  vamosed. 

"This  was  my  first  introduction  to  Neville 
Pomeroy.  I  cut  his  bonds  fii-st,  and  then  intro- 
duced myself.  He  had  no  clothes  on,  but  was 
as  courteous  as  though  he  was  dressed  in  the 
latest  Fifth  Avenue  fashion.  We  soon  under- 
stood one  another.  I  found  hiin  as  plucky  as 
the  devil,  and  as  tough  and  true  as  steel.  He 
seemed  to  like  me,  and  we  kept  together  on  the 
prairies  for  three  months — fighting,  hunting, 
star\ing,  stuffing,  and  enjoying  life  generally. 
He  came  with  me  to  New  York,  and  stopped  with 
tjoe.     I  was  a  broker  and  banker.     Don't  look 


like  one,  I  know ;  but  I  was,  ami  iim.  The 
American  broker  is  a  ditfurent  animal  from  the 
broker  of  Kurope.  So  is  the  American  banker, 
one  of  whom  you  sec  before  you. 

"  I  won't  say  any  thing  more  about  our  ])er- 
sonal  affairs.  Wu  liecainu  sworn  friends,  lie 
went  back  home,  and  I  took  to  the  desk.  Some- 
how wo  kept  writing  to  one  another.  IIo  heard 
of  groat  investments  in  America,  and  got  ino  to 
buy  stock  for  bim.  lie  was  rich,  and  soon  had 
a  largo  amount  of  money  in  my  hiiiuls.  I  got 
the  best  investments  for  him  there  were,  and  was 
glad  to  do  any  thing  for  a  man  like  that. 

*'  I'll  now  go  on  straiglit  and  toll  you  all  that 
you  care  to  hear.  Some  of  this — in  fact,  most 
of  it — I  did  not  find  out  till  long  afterward. 

"  Neville  I'omeroy  then  had  a  younger  brother, 
named  i'omberton  I'omeroy.  IIo  was  ati  othcer 
in  the  Guards.  lie  was  very  dissipated,  and  soon 
got  head  over  heels  in  debt.  Neville  had  ilono 
all  that  be  could  for  his  iirother,  and  hiid  paid 
off  his  debts  three  times,  each  time  saving  him 
from  ruin.  But  it  was  no  use.  There  was  the 
very  devil  himself  in  I'emberton.  He  was  by 
nature  ono  of  the  meanest  rascals  that  was  ever 
created,  though  the  fellow  was  not  bad -looking. 
He  got  deeper  and  deeper  into  the  mire,  and  at 
last  got  into  a  scrape  so  bad,  so  dirty,  that  he 
had  to  quit  the  Guards.  It  was  a  gambling  af- 
fair of  so  infamous  a  character  that  it  v/as  impos- 
sible for  his  brother  to  save  him.  So  he  (juit  the 
Guards,  and  went  into  worse  courses  than  over. 
Neville  tried  still  to  save  him ;  be  wanted  to  get 
him  an  office,  but  I'emberton  refused.  Mean- 
while, out  of  a  sense  of  decency,  he  had  changed 
his  name  to  that  of  Uedfield  Lyttoun,  and  under 
this  name  he  became  pretty  well  known  to  a 
new  circle  of  friends.  Under  this  name  he  made 
the  acquaintance  of  the  wife  of  the  Earl  of  <  'het- 
wyndo.  It  seems  that  the  Earl  was  wrapped  up 
in  politics,  and  had  ofi'ended  her  by  giving  up  a 
great  office  which  he  held  rather  than  act  dis- 
honorably. She  was  angry,  and  grew  desperate. 
Kedfield  Lyttoun  turned  up,  and  amused  her. 
She  compromised  herself  very  serioiudy  by  al- 
lowing such  marked  attentions  from  him,  and 
people  began  to  talk  about  them.  The  Earl 
knew  nothing  at  all  about  this,  as  he  was  busy 
all  the  day.  There  was  a  sort  of  quarrel  be- 
tween them,  and  all  her  doings  were  (piite  un- 
known. But  Neville  heard  of  it,  and  made  a 
final  attempt  to  save  his  brother.  I  think  this 
time  he  was  actuated  rather  by  regard  for  the 
Earl,  who  was  his  most  intimate  friend,  than  by 
any  hope  of  saving  this  wretched  fool  of  a  brother 
of  his.  At  any  rate,  he  warned  him,  and  threat- 
ened to  tell  the  Earl  him.self  of  all  that  was  going 
on.  l'eml)erton  took  alarm,  and  pretended  that 
he  would  do  as  Neville  said.  He  promised  to 
give  up  Lady  Chetwynde.  But  his  brother's  ad- 
vice had  only  made  him  savage,  and  he  deteim- 
ined  to  carry  out  this  game  to  the  end.  Ho 
was  desperate,  reckless,  and  utterly  unprincipled. 
Lady  Chetwynde  was  silly  and  thoughtless.  She 
liked  the  scoundrel,  too,  I  suppose.  At  any  rate, 
he  induced  her  to  run  away  with  him.  For  the 
sake  of  getting  funds  to  live  on  he  forged  somo 
drafts.  He  found  out  that  Neville  had  money 
in  my  hands,  and  drew  for  this.  I  suspected 
nothing,  and  the  drafts  were  paid.  He  got  the 
mtmey  in  time  to  run  off  with  his  victim.  Silly 
and  foolish  as  Lady  Chetwynde  was,  the  moment 


252 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


that  she  had  taken  the  i'lovitable  step  slie  repent- 
ed. 8he  thought  that  it  would  be  impossible  to 
retrace  it,  and  ^nve  herself  up  to  despair.  Tney 
fled  to  Anierioa  under  assumed  names. 

"Their  flight  was  immediately  known  to  Ne- 
ville. He  lost  not  a  moment,  but  hurried  out  to 
America  ;  and  as  the  ship  in  which  he  sailed  was 
taster  than  the  other,  he  reached  New  York  first. 
He  came  at  once  to  me.  Then  he  learned,  for 
the  fii-st  time,  of  the  forgery.  About  one  hun- 
dred thousand  dollars  had  been  drawn  and  paid. 
We  took  counsel  together,  and  watched  for  the 
arrival  of  the  steamer.  Immediately  on  its  bei,  g 
reported  in  the  bay  we  boarded  her,  and  Pem- 
Ijerton  Pomeroy  was  arrested.  He  was  taken 
to  prison,  and  Neville  induced  Lady  Chetwynde 
to  come  with  us.  1  ottered  my  iiouse.  The 
])rivacy  was  a  most  important  thing.  !She  had 
been  freed  from  Pemherton's  clutches,  and  Ne- 
ville showed  her  that  it  was  possible  for  her  to 
escape  yet  from  complete  infamy.  The  sudden- 
ness of  this  termination  to  their  plan  startled  her 
and  horrified  her.  Remorse  came,  and  then  de- 
spair. All  this  preyed  upon  her  mind,  and  with 
it  all  there  came  a  great  longing  for  her  son, 
whom  she  had  left  behind.  The  end  of  it  all 
was  that  she  fell  under  an  attack  of  brain-fever, 
and  lingered  for  many  months  a  victim  to  it. 
She  finally  reco.ereu,  and  went  into  a  convent. 
After  staying  there  some  time  she  suddenly  left. 
That  is  the  meaning  of  those  letters  which  you 
found.  Of  course  1  kept  Neville  Pomeroy  ac- 
quainted with  these  circumstances  on  his  return. 

"  Meanwhile  Pemberton  Pomeroy  had  lain  un- 
der arrest.  Neville  went  to  see  him,  and  took  ad- 
vantage of  his  misery  to  exact  from  him  a  solemn 
promise  never  to  search  after  Lady  Chetwynde 
again,  or  interfere  with  her  in  any  way.  !Soon 
after  that  Pemberton  Pomeroy  was  ireed,  for  Ne- 
ville declined  to  appear  against  him,  and  the  case 
dropped.     Neville  then  went  back  to  England. 

"Pemberton  Pomeroy  remained.  There  was 
no  more  hope  for  him  in  England.  The  money 
which  he  had  gained  by  his  forgery  he,  of  course, 
had  to  refinid ;  but  his  brother  generously  gave 
him  a  few  thousands  to  begin  life  on.  Peml>or- 
ton  then  disappeared  for  a  year  or  two.  At  the 
end  of  that  time  he  came  back.  He  had  gone 
to  England,  and  then  returned  to  America,  where 
he  had  lived  out  West.  All  his  money  was  gone. 
He  had  falbn  into  low  courses.  He  had  taken 
a  wife  from  the  dregs  of  the  foreign  population, 
and,  as  though  he  had  some  spark  of  shame  left, 
he  had  changed  his  name  to  Krieff.  He  had  s])ent 
his  last  cent,  and  came  to  me  for  help.  I  helped 
him,  and  (tut  him  in  the  way  of  getting  a  living. 

"IJut  he  had  lived  a  wild  life,  and  was  com- 
pletely used  up.  When  he  came  to  me  he  was 
pretty  well  gone  in  consumption.  1  saw  he 
couldn't  last  long.  I  went  to  see  him  a  good 
many  times.-  He  used  to  profess  the  deepest  re- 
pentance. He  told  me  once  that  he  was  writing 
a  confession  of  his  crimes,  which  he  was  going  to 
send  to  his  brother.  The  miserable  creature 
had  scarcely  any  spirit  or  courage  left,  and  gen- 
erally when  I  visited  him  he  used  to  begin  cry- 
ing. I  put  up  with  him  as  well  as  I  could,  though. 
One  day  when  I  was  with  him  he  handed  me  a 
paper,  with  considerable  fuss,  and  said  1  was  not 
to  open  it  till  after  his  death.  Not  long  after- 
ward he  died.  I  opened  Jw  paper,  and  found 
that  it  contained  only  this  cipher,  together  with 


a  solemn  request  that  it  shoidd  be  forwardetl 
to  his  brother.  I  wrote  to  Nf  vdle  Pomeroy, 
telling  him  of  his  brother's  (^eath,  and  he  at 
once  came  out  to  New  York.  He  had  him 
decently  buried,  and  I  gave  him  the  papers.  1 
had  taken  a  copy  myself,  and  had  found  a  man 
who  helped  me  to  decipher  it.  There  was  no- 
thing in  it.  The  poor  fool  had  wanted  to  make 
a  confession  some  way,  but  was  too  mean  to  do 
it  like  a  man,  and  so  he  made  up  this  start",  which 
was  of  no  use  to  any  one,  and  could  only  be  de- 
ciphered by  extraordinary  skill.  But  the  fellow 
is  dead,  and  now  you  know  all  the  business." 

Obed  Chute  ended,  and  bent  down  his  head  in 
thought.  Hilda  had  listened  with  the  deepest 
attention,  and  at  the  conclusion  of  this  account 
she,  too,  fell  into  deep  thought.  There  were 
many  things  in  it  which  impressed  her,  and  some 
which  startled  her  with  a  peculiar  shock. 

But  the  one  idea  in  her  mind  was  different 
from  any  thing  in  this  narrative,  and  had  no  con- 
nection with  the  mystery  of  the  secret  cipher, 
which  had  battled  her  so  long.  It  was  not  for 
this,  not  in  search  of  this  interpretation,  that  she 
had  come.  She  had  listened  to  it  rather  wearily, 
as  though  all  that  Obed  could  tell  was  a  matter 
of  inditi'erence,  whichever  way  it  tended.  To 
find  that  her  interpretation  was  false  had  excited 
no  very  deep  emotion.  <  )nce  the  search  into  this 
had  been  the  chief  purpose  of  her  life ;  but  all  the 
results  that  could  be  accomplished  by  that  search 
had  long  since  been  gained.  The  cipher  writing 
was  a  dead  thing,  belonging  to  the  dead  past. 
She  had  only  used  it  as  a  ))lausib1e  excuse  to 
gain  admittance  to  the  villa.for  a  higher  purpose. 

The  time  had  now  come  for  the  revelation  of 
that  purpose. 

"Sir,"  said  she,  in  a  low  voice,  looking  earn- 
estly nt  Obed  (^huto,  "I  feel  very  grateful  to 
you  for  yoiu'  great  kindness  in  favoring  me  with 
this  explanation.  It  has  been  hard  for  me  to 
have  this  interi)retation  of  mine  in  any  way  attect 
my  father's  memory.  I  never  could  bring  my- 
self to  believe  it,  knowing  him  as  1  knew  him. 
IJut,  at  the  same  time,  the  very  idea  that  there 
was  such  a  charge  in  writing  disturbed  me. 
Your  explanation,  Sir,  has  made  all  clear,  and 
has  set  my  mind  at  rest  in  that  particular. 

"And  now.  Sir,  will  you  excuse  me  if  I  meti- 
tion  one  more  thing  which  I  would  like  to  ask 
of  you.  It  concerns  me,  you  will  see,  even  more 
closely  than  this  writing  could  ha/e  concerned 
me.  I'  'ouches  me  in  a  more  tender  ))lace.  It 
is  very  snange,  and,  indeed,  quite  inexplicable, 
why  you.  Sir,  a  stranger,  should  be  interwoven 
with  these  things  which  are  so  sacred  to  me : 
but  so  it  is.'' 

Obed  was  att'ecfed  by  the  solemnity  of  her 
tone,  and  by  a  oertuin  pathos  in  her  last  words, 
and  by  something  in  her  manner  which  showed  a 
deeper  feeling  by  far  than  she  had  evinced  before. 

What  Hilda  now  proceeded  to  say  she  ha<l 
long  thought  over,  and  prepared  with  great  de- 
liberation. No  doubt  the  woman  whom  Lonl 
(Ihetwynde  loved  lived  here.  Most  probably  she 
was  ( )bed  (-hate's  young  wife,  possibly  his  daugh- 
ter ;  but  in  any  case  it  would  be  to  him  a  terri- 
ble disclosure,  if  she,  Lord  Chetwynde's  wife, 
came  and  solemnly  informed  him  of  the  intrigue 
that  was  going  on.  She  had  made  up  her  mind, 
then,  to  disclose  this,  at  all  hazards,  trusting  to 
circumstances  for  full  and  comjdete  sMtiBtHCtion. 


,!..v  A 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


258 


■icv 


rn 


bM^ii>;^#i^>!:l#^^^  . 


'YKS,'    Hli    CKIKI),    'i'lL    HAVK    THIS    CLLAUKU    UP   NOV,    ONCK    AND    FOKk.VKK.    " 


"Sir,"  she  continued,  in  a  voice  which  ex- 
pressed still  deeper  emotion,  "what  I  have  to 
nay  Is  something  which  it  pains  me  to  say.  yet  it 
must  be  said.  I  nm  Lady  Chctwynde,  and  trav- 
eled here  with  Lord  Chetwynde,  who  is  tiie  only 
acquaintance  I  have  in  Florence.  I  hurried  from 
Knglnnd  to  his  sick-bed,  in  Switzerland,  and 
saved  his  life.     Then  1  came  here  with  him. 

"Of  late  1  have  been  suspicious  of  him.  iSome 
things  occurred  which  led  me  to  suppose  that  he 
was  paying  attentions  to  a  lady  here.  My  jeal- 
ousy was  aroused.  I  learned,  I  need  not  say 
how,  that  he  was  a  constant  visitor  here.  I  fol- 
lowed him  to  a  mas()uerade  to  which  he  refused 
to  take  me.  1  saw  him  with  this  lady,  whose 
face  I  could  not  see.  They  left  you.  They  walk- 
ed to  an  arbor.  I  listened — for.  Sir,  what  wife 
would  not  listen  ? — and  I  heard  him  make  a 
frantic  declaration  of  love,  and  urge  her  to  fly 
vith  him.  Had  I  nut  interrupted  them  at  that 
.loment  they  might  have  tied.  Oh,  Sir,  think 
of  my  lonely  condition — think  what  it  costs  my 
]>ride  to  speak  thus  to  a  stranger.  Tell  me,  what 
is  this  ?  Is  it  possible,  or  do  I  dream  ?  Tell  me, 
do  yon  know  thut  my  husband  loves  this  wo- 
man ?" 

The  emotion  with  which  Hilda  spoke  grew 
stronger.     She  rose  to  her  feet,  and  took  a  step 


nearer  to  Obed.  She  stood  there  with  clasped 
iiands,  her  beautiful  face  turned  toward  him  with 
deep  entreaty. 

Obed  looked  at  her  in  a  fresh  bewilderment. 
He  was  silent  for  a  long  time.  At  lust  he  start- 
ed to  his  feet. 

"Well,  marm,"  said  he,  as  he  clenched  his 
fist,  "  I  don't  understand.  I  can't  explain.  Ev- 
ery thing  is  a  muddle.  All  I  can  say  is  this — 
there's  either  treachery  or  insanity  somewhere, 
and  may  I  be  cut  up  into  8au.sages  and  chawed 
up  by  ("omanches  if  I'll  stand  this  any  longer. 
Yes,"  he  cried,  "by  the  Lord!  I'll  have  this 
cleared  up  now,  once  and  forever.  1  will,  by 
theEtcnial!" 

tie  brought  his  huge  fist  down  with  a  crash  on 
the  table,  and  left  the  room.     ,  .  . 

Hilda  sat  waiting. 


CHAPTER  LXXVin.  V     ! 

"thk  wifm  of  lord  chetwyndb." 

Hilda  sat  waiting. 

Obed  had  gone  in  senrch  of  those  who  could 
face  this  woman  and  answer  her  story.  Ho 
went  first  to  send  word  to  Zillah,  summoning  her 


264 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


down.  Zillah  had  been  feebly  reclining  on  her 
couch,  distracted  by  thoughts  at  once  jjeiiilexing 
and  agonizing,  filled  witii  despair  at  the  dark 
calamity  which  had  suddenly  descended,  with  a 
black  future  arising  before  her,  when  she  and 
"  Windham"  were  to  be  sundered  forever.  He 
hated  her.  That  was  her  chief  thought ;  and 
Windham's  love  had  gone  down  in  nn  instant 
before  (iu_ ".:  deadly  abhorrence.  A  lighter  dis- 
tress might  have  been  borne  by  the  assistance 
of  pride ;  but  this  was  too  overmastering,  and 
pride  stood  powerless  in  the  presence  of  a 
breaking  heart.  In  such  a  mood  as  this  was  she 
when  the  message  was  brought  to  her  which 
Obed  hud  sent. 

The  wife  of  Lord  Chetwynde  was  down  stairs, 
and  wished  to  see  her ! 

The  wife  of  Lord  Chetwynde  ! 

Those  words  stung  her  like  serpents'  fangs ; 
a  tumult  of  fierce  rage  and  jealousy  at  once  arose 
within  her;  and  at  this  new  emotion  her  sorrow 
left  her,  and  the  weakness  arising  from  her 
crushed  love.  With  a  start  she  rose  to  her  feet, 
and  hastily  prepared  to  descend. 

After  summoning  Zillah,  Obed  went  in  search 
of  Lord  Ohetwynde.  Some  time  elapsed  before 
he  could  find  him.  lie  had  been  wandering 
about  the  grounds  in  a  state  bordering  on  dis- 
traction. 

Meanwhile  Hilda  sat  waiting. 

Alone  in  the  great  room,  where  now  the  shad- 
ows were  gathering,  she  wi.'s  left  to  her  own  dark 
reflections.  The  sufi'crings  through  which  she 
had  passed  had  weakened  her,  and  the  last  scene 
with  Obed  had  not  been  adapted  to  reassure  her 
or  console  her.  The  state  of  sus[)enso  in  which 
she  now  was  did  not  give  her  any  fresh  strength. 
Her  nervous  system  was  disorganized,  anc  .ler 
present  position  stimulated  her  morbid  fancy, 
turning  it  toward  dark  and  sombre  forebodings. 
And  now  in  this  solitude  and  gloom  which  was 
about  her,  and  in  the  deep  suspense  in  which  she 
was  waiting,  there  came  to  her  mind  a  thought 
— a  thought  which  made  her  flesh  creep,  and 
her  blood  run  chill,  while  a  strange,  grisly  hor- 
ror descended  awfully  upon  her.  She  could  not 
help  remembering  how  it  had  been  before.  Twice 
she  had  made  an  eifort  to  anticipate  fate  and 
grasp  at  vengeance — once  by  herself  alone,  and 
once  in  the  person  of  Gualtier.  Each  attempt 
had  been  baffled.  It  had  been  frustrated  in  the 
same  way  precisely.  To  each  of  them  there  had 
come  that  fearful  phantom  figure,  rising  before 
them  awfully,  menacingly,  with  an  aspect  of  ter- 
rible import.  Well  she  remembered  that  shape 
as  it  had  risen  before  her  at  the  pavilion — a 
shape  with  white  face,  and  white  clothing,  and 
burning  eyes  —  that  figure  which  seemed  to 
emerge  from  the  depths  of  the  sea,  with  tlie  drip 
of  the  water  in  her  dark,  dank  hair,  and  in  her 
white,  clinging  draperies.  It  was  no  fiction  of 
the  imagination,  for  Gualtier  had  seen  the  same. 
It  was  no  fiction,  for  she  recalled  her  horror,  and 
the  flight  through  the  forest,  while  the  shape 
purs.ued  till  it  struck  her  down  into  senseles' 
ness. 

A  shudder  passed  through  her  once  mo.  ^  dt 
the  recollection  of  these  things.  And  there  arose 
a  question  of  awful  import.  Wo'dd  it  come 
ag^in  ?  Now  was  the  third  attempt — the  fateful 
third !  Would  she  again  be  baffled,  and  by 
that  T    She  feared  no  human  fi^o ;  but  this  hor- 


ror was  something  which  she  could  never  again 
encoimter  and  live.  And  there  came  the  terror 
over  her  that  she  might  once  again  see  this. 

She  was  alone  amidst  her  terrors.  It  was 
growing  late.  In  the  great  room  the  dimnesf- 
was  deepening,  and  the  furniture  looked  ghostly 
nt  the  farther  end  of  the  apartment.  It  was  not 
long  since  Obed  had  gone,  but  the  time  seemed 
to  her  interminable.  It  seemed  to  her  as  though 
she  were  all  alone  in  the  gieat  house.  She  strug- 
gled with  her  fancies,  and  sat  looking  at  the 
door  fixedly,  and  with  a  certain  awful  e.xpecta- 
tion  in  her  eyes. 

Then,  as  she  looked,  a  thrjU  flashed  through 
all  her  being.  For  there,  slowly  and  noiselessly, 
a  figure  entered — a  figure  which  she  knew  too 
well.  Robed  in  white  it  was  ;  the  face  was  pale 
and  white  as  the  dress ;  the  hair  was  thick  and 
ebon  black,  and  hung  down  loosely;  the  dress 
clung  closely.  Was  it  the  drip  of  the  sea-wave — 
was  it  the  wet  clothing  that  thus  clung  to  the 
figure  which  had  once  more  come  from  the  dark 
ocean  depths  to  avenge  her  own  cause  ?  There, 
in  very  deed,  stood  the  «hape  of  horror — 

"  her  gi.rment8 
CllngliiK  lilfe  ctTomenta,  4,. 

While  tlie  wave  constantly 
Dripped  from  her  clothing." 

It  was  she.  It  \'#as  the  one  who  had  been 
sent  down  to  death  beneath  the  waters,  but  who 
now  returned  for  the  last  time,  no  longer  to  warn 
or  to  baffle,  but  to  change  from  victim  to  aveng- 
er! 

The  anguish  of  that  moment  was  greater  far 
than  all  the  agonies  which  Hilda  had  ever  known. 
Her  heart  stopped  beating;  all  life  seemed  to  ebb 
away  from  the  terror  of  that  presence.  Wildly 
there  arose  a  thought  of  flight ;  but  she  was  spell- 
bound, her  limbs  were  paralyzed,  and  the  dark, 
luminous  eyes  of  the  horror  enchained  her  own 
gaze.  Suddenly  she  made  a  convulsive  eft'ort, 
mechanically,  and  sprung  to  her  feet,  her  hands 
clutching  one  another  in  a  kind  of  spasm,  and 
her  brain  reeling  beneath  such  thoughts  as  make 
men  mad.  In  that  deep  agony  a  gronn  burst 
from  her,  bat  she  spoke  not  a  word  as  she  stood 
there  rooted  to  the  spot. 

As  for  Zillah  herself,  she,  on  entering,  had  seen 
Hilda,  had  recognized  her,  and  was  stricken  dumb 
with  amazement.  That  amazement  made  her 
t*op  and  regard  her,  with  wild,  staring  eyes,  in 
utter  silence.  There  had  been  only  one  tho'ight 
in  her  mind,  and  that  was  to  see  who  it  could 
possibly  be  that  dared  to  come  here  with  the  pre- 
tense of  being  "Lord  Chetwynde's  wife."  In 
her  eagerness  she  had  come  down  in  a  rather 
neglige'  costume,  and  entering  the  room  she 
found  herself  thus  face  to  face  with  Hilda.  At 
that  sight  a  thousand  thoughts  flashed  at  once 
into  her  mind.  In  a  moment  she  had  divined 
the  whole  extent  of  Hilda's  perfidy.  Now  she 
could  understand  fully  the  reason  why  Hilda  had 
betrayed  her ;  why  she  had  formed  so  carefully 
contrived  and  so  elaborate  a  plot,  which  had  been 
•carried  out  so  jiatiently  and  so  remorselessly, 
that  sight  of  Hilda  showed  her,  too,  what  must 
have  been  the  height  and  the  depth  and  the  full 
extent  of  the  plot  against  her  young,  undefended 
life — its  cruelty,  and  the  baseness  of  its  motive. 
It  was  to  take  her  place  that  Hilda  had  betraye<l 
her.  Out  of  such  a  motive  had  arisen  such  foul 
ingratitude  and  such  daidly  crime.     Yet  in  her 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


255 


generous  heart,  while  her  mind  understood  this 
much,  and  her  judgment  condemned  this  vile 
traitor,  the  old  habit  of  tenderness  awakened  at 
the  sigiit  of  the  familiar  face,  once  so  dear. 
Dearly  had  she  loved  her,  fondly  had  she  trusted 
her ;  both  love  and  faith  had  been  outraged,  and 
the  friend  had  doomed  to  death  the  unsuspecting 
friend ;  yet  now  even  this  last  wrong  could  not 
destroy  the  old  love,  and  her  thoughts  were  less 
of  vengeance  than  of  sad  reproach.  Involun- 
tarily a  cry  escaped  her. 

"Oh,  Hilda!  Hilda!"  she  exclaimed,  in  a 
voice  of  anguish,  "how  could  you  betray  your 
Zillah  !" 

To  Hilda's  excited  and  almost  maddened  fancy 
these  words  seemed  like  reproaches  tiung  out  by 
the  dead — the  preliminaries  to  that  awful  doom 
which  the  dead  was  about  to  pronounce  or  to  in- 
flict. She  trembled  in  dread  anticipation,  and 
in  a  hoarse,  unnatural  voice,  and  iu  scarce  audi- 
ble words,  gasped  out, 

"  What  do  you  want?" 

For  a  few  moments  Zillah  said  not  a  word, 
though  those  few  moments  seemed  like  hours  to 
Hilda.     Then,  with  a  sudden  imjudse,  she  ad- 
vanced toward  her.     Her  impulse  was  one  of 
j)ity  and  kindliness.     She  could  not  help  seeing 
the  anguish  of  Hilda.     For  a  moment  she  forgot 
all  but  this,  and  a  vague  desire  to  assure  her  of 
forgiveness  arose  within  her.      But  that  move- 
ment of  hers  was  terrible  to  Hilda.     It  was  the 
advance  of  the  wrathfid  avenger  of  blood,  the 
irresistible  punisher  of  wrong;   the  advent  of 
a  frightful  thing,  whose  presence  was  horror, 
whose  approach  was  death.     With  a  wild  shriek 
of  mortal  fear  she  flung  up  her  arms,  as  if  to  ' 
shut  out  that  awful  sight,  or  to  avert  that  terrible 
fate,  and  then,  as  though  the  last  vestige  of  | 
strength  had  left  her  utterly,  she  staggered  back,  [ 
and  sank  down,  shuddering   and  gasping  for 
breath,  into  her  chair,  and  sat  there  with  her 
eyes  fixed  on  Zillah,  and  expressing  an  intensity  ' 
of  fear  and  apprehension  which  could  not  be 
mistaken.     Zillah  saw  it.     She  stopped  in  von-  j 
der,  and  thus  wondering,  she  stood  regarding  her 
in  silence. 

But  at  this  moment  footsteps  were  heard,  and 
Obed  Chute  entered,  followed  by  Lord  Chet- 
wynde. 

Obed  had  but  one  thought  in  his  mind,  and 
that  was  to  unravel  this  mystery  as  soon  as  j)os- 
sible;  for  the  presence  of  such  an  inexplicable 
mystery  as  this  made  him  feel  uncomfortable  and 
humiliated.  Until  this  was  explained  in  some 
way  he  knew  that  he  would  be  able  to  find  rest 
neither  by  night  nor  by  day.  He  was,  therefore, 
resolved  to  jjress  things  forward,  in  hoj)e8  of  get- 
ting some  clew  at  least  to  the  labyrinth  in  which 
his  mind  was  wandering.  He  therefore  took 
Lord  Chetwynde  by  the  arm  and  drew  him  up 
toward  Hilda,  so  that  he  stood  between  her  and 
Zillah. 

"Now,"  he  said,  abruptly,  turning  to  Hilda, 
"  I  have  brought  the  man  you  wish  to  see.  Here 
he  is  before  you,  face  to  face.  Look  at  him  and 
answer  me.     Is  this  man  your  husband  ?" 

These  words  stung  Zillah  to  the  soul.  In  an 
instant  all  pity  and  all  tenderness  toward  Hilda 
vanished  utterly.  All  her  baseness  arose  before 
her.  unredeemed  by  any  further  thought  of  for- 
mer love  <M-  of  her  present  misery.  She  sprang 
fonvard,  her  eyes  flashing,  her  hands  clenched, 


her  whole  frame  trembling,  and  all  her  soul  on 
fire,  as  it  kindled  with  the  fury  of  her  passionate 
indignation. 

'  •  Her  husband !"  she  exclaimed,  with  infinite 
passion  and  unutterable  contempt — "Aer  hus- 
band !  Say,  Mr.  Chute,  do  you  know  who  it  is 
that  you  see  before  you?  I  will  tell  you.  Be- 
hold, Sir,  the  wonuin  who  betrayed  me ;  the 
false  friend  who  sought  my  life,  and,  in  return 
for  the  love  and  confidence  of  years,  tried  to  cast 
me,  her  friend,  to  death.  This,  Sir,  is  the  wo- 
man whom  you  have  been  so  long  seeking,  her- 
self— the  paramour  of  that  wretch,  Gualtier — my 
betrayer  and  my  assassin — Hilda  Krieff." 

These  words  were  flung  forth  like  lava-fire, 
scorching  and  blighting  in  their  hot  and  intense 
hate.  Her  whole  face  and  manner  and  tone  had 
changed.  From  that  gentle  girl  who,  as  Miss 
Lorton,  had  been  never  else  than  sweet  and  soft 
and  tender  and  mournfid,  she  was  now  trans- 
formed to  a  wrathful  and  pitiless  avenger,  a  bale- 
ful fury,  beautiful,  yet  terrific  ;  one  inspired  by 
love  stronger  than  death,  and  jealousy  as  cruel 
as  the  grave ;  one  who  was  now  pitiless  and  re- 
morseless ;  one  whose  soul  was  animated  by  the 
one  feeling  only  of  instant  and  implacable  venge- 
ance. The  fierceness  of  that  inexorable  wrath 
glowed  in  her  burning  eyes,  and  in  the  rigid 
outstretched  aim  with  which  she  pointed  toward 
Hilda.  In  this  moment  of  her  fervid  passion  her 
Indian  nature  was  all  revealed  in  its  hot,  tem- 
pestuous, unreasoning  fury ;  and  the  Zillah  of 
this  scene  was  that  same  Zillah  who,  years  be- 
fore, had  turned  away  from  the  bedside  of  her 
dying  father  to  utter  those  maledictions,  those 
taunts,  and  those  bitter  insults,  which  Lord  Chet- 
wynde so  well  remembered. 

Yet  to  Hilda  at  that  instant  these  words,  with 
all  their  fury  and  inexorable  hate,  came  like  balm 
and  sweetness — like  the  gentle  utterancesof  peace 
and  calm.  They  roused  her  up  at  last  from  that 
great  and  unendurable  hoiTor  into  which  she  had 
fallen ;  they  brought  back  her  vanished  strength ; 
they  restored  her  to  herself.  For  they  showed 
her  this  one  thing  plainly,  and  this  above  all 
things,  that  it  was  not  the  dead  who  stood  thus  be- 
fore her,  but  the  living  I  Had  her  former  suspensi'. 
been  delayed  a  few  moments  more  she  woulu 
have  died  in  her  agony ;  but  now  the  horror  had 
vanished  ;  the  one  before  her  bore  no  longer  the 
terrors  of  the  unseen,  but  become  an  ordinary  liv- 
ing being.  It  was  Zillah  herself,  not  in  death  as 
an  apparition,  but  in  life  as  a  woman.  She  cared 
nothing  for  the  hate  and  the  vengeance,  nothing 
for  the  insult  and  the  scorn.  She  cared  nothing 
for  the  mystery  that  enshrouded  Zillah,  nor  was 
it  of  any  consequence  to  her  then  how  she  had 
been  saved.  FiUongh  was  it  that  Zillah  was  real- 
ly alive.  At  this  she  revived.  Her  weakness 
left  her.  She  drew  a  long  breath,  and  all  the 
vigor  of  her  strong  soul  returned. 

But  on  the  others  the  effect  of  Zillah's  words 
was  overwhelming.  Obed  Chute  started  back  in 
amazement  at  this  revelation,  and  looked  won- 
deringly  upon  this  woman,  who  had  but  lately 
l)een  winning  his  sympathy  as  an  injured  wife ; 
and  he  marveled  greatly  how  this  delicate,  this 
beautiful  and  higli-bred  lady,  could,  by  any  pos- 
sibility, be  identified  with  that  atrocious  mon- 
ster whose  image  had  always  existed  in  his  mind 
as  the  natiu'al  form  of  Zillah's  traitorous  friend. 

On  Lord  Chetwvnde  the  ett'ect  of  all  this, 


256 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


though  eqiinlly  grent,  was  dittereiit.  One  look 
lit  Hilda  ill  her  first  coiisteniiUioii  and  horror, 
and  another  at  Zillah  in  her  burning  pusxion, 
had  been  enough.  As  Zillah  finished,  he  caught 
iter  outstretched  hand  as  it  was  pointing  toward 
Hilda,  and  there  rushed  through  all  his  being  a 
rapture  beyond  words,  as  a  dim  perception  of  the 
truth  came  to  his  mind. 

"Oh,  my  darling!"  he  cried,  "say  it  again. 
( 'an  this  be  possible  ?  Is  she,  then,  an  impostor  ? 
Have  I,  indeed,  been  blinded  and  deceived  all 
this  time  by  her?" 

Zillah  tore  her  hand  away  from  his  grasp.  In 
that  moment  of  fury  there  came  to  her  a  thou- 
sand jealous  fears  to  distract  her.  The  thought 
that  he  had  been  so  far  deceived  as  to  actually 
believe  this  woman  his  wife  was  intolerable. 
Tliere  was  a  wrathful  cloud  upon  her  brow  as 
she  turned  her  eyes  to  look  at  him,  and  in  those 
eyes  there  was  a  glance,  hard,  stern,  and  cold, 
such  as  might  befit  an  outraged  and  injured  wife. 
Hut  as  she  thus  turned  to  look  at  him  the  glance 
that  met  hers  was  one  before  which  her  fury  sub- 
sided. It  was  a  glance  upon  which  she  could 
not  look  and  cherish  hate,  or  even  coldness ; 
for  she  saw  in  his  face  a  wild  rapture,  and  in  his 
eyes  a  gleam  of  exuUant  joy,  while  the  flushed 
cheeks  and  the  ecstatic  smile  showed  how  deep- 
ly and  how  truly  he  loved  her.  On  that  face 
there  was  no  cloud  of  shame,  no  trace  of  embar- 
ra.ssment,  no  sign  of  any  consciousnejis  of  acts 
I  hat  might  awaken  lier  displeasure.  There  was 
nothing  there  but  that  old  tenderness  which  she 
had  once  or  twice  seen  on  the  face  of  Windham 
— a  tenderness  which  was  all  for  her.  And  she 
knew  by  that  sign  that  Guy  was  Windliam ;  and 
being  Windiiiim,  he  was  hers,  and  hers  alone. 
At  this  all  her  hardness,  and  all  her  anger,  and  all 
the  fury  of  her  passion  were  dispelled  as  quickly 
as  they  had  arisen,  and  a  great  calm,  full  and  deep, 
came  over  all  her  being.  He  loved  her !  That 
was  enough.  The  fears  which  had  tormented  her 
since  Mrs.  Hart's  revelation,  the  fury  which  had 
arisen  but  a  feiv  moments  ago  at  the  dark  prompt- 
ings of  jealousy,  were  now  all  dispelled,  and  she 
saw  in  Lord  Chetwynde  her  own  Windham. 

Quickly  and  swiftly  had  these  thoughts  and 
Ceeliiigs  come  and  gone;  but  in  that  moment, 
when  Zillah's  attention  wtis  diverted  to  Lord 
Chetwynde,  Hilda  gained  more  of  her  self-com- 
mund.  All  was  lost ;  but  still,  even  in  her  de- 
spair, she  found  a  fresh  strength.  Here  all  were 
her  enemies ;  she  was  in  their  power  and  at  their 
mercy ;  her  very  life  was  now  at  their  disposal ; 
they  could  wreak  on  her,  if  they  chose,  a  full  and 
ample  vengeance ;  j'et  the  thought  of  all  this  only 
strengthened  her  the  more,  for  that  which  deep- 
ened her  despair  only  intensified  her  hate.  And 
so  it  was  that  at  this  last  moment,  when  all  was 
lost,  with  her  enemies  thus  before  her,  the  occa- 
sion onl\'  served  to  stimulate  her.  Her  strength 
had  returned ;  she  summoned  up  all  her  energies, 
and  stood  grandly  at  bay.  She  rose  to  her  feet 
and  confronted  them  all — defiant,  haughty,  and 
vindictive — and  brought  against  them  all  the  un- 
(ton(|uerable  pride  of  her  strong  and  stubborn 
nature. 

"Tell  me  again,"  said  Obec"  Chute,  "what 
name  was  it  that  you  gave  this  woman '?" 

"  I  am  Zillah,  daughter  of  General  Pomoroy, 
and  this  wonuin  is  Hilda  Krietf,"  was  the  re- 
ply. 


I      "  Hi^  la— Hilda- Hildn  Kiieff.'  Hilda  KriefT.'" 
;  said  Obed  Chute.     "  My  good  Lord  !" 

But  Hilda  did  not  notice  this,  nor  any  thing 
I  else. 

I  "Well,"  she  said,  in  a  cold  and  bitter  tone, 
!"  it  seems  that  I've  lost  the  game.  Amen.  Per- 
haps it's  just  as  well.  And  so  you're  alive,  after 
I  all,  are  you,  Zillah,  and  not  in  the  sea  ?  Gual- 
I  tier,  then,  deceived  me.  That  also  is,  after  all, 
^  just  as  well." 

"Wretched  woman,"  said  Lord  Chetwynde, 

solemnly,  "Gualtier  did  not  deceive  you.     He 

did  his  work.      It  was  I  who  saved  her  from 

{  death.     In  any  case,  you  have  the  stuin  of  mur- 

j  der  on  your  soul." 

"Perhaps  I  have,  my  lord,"  said  Hilda,  cool- 
I  ly,  "and  other  stains  also,  all  of  which  make  it 
highly  inappropriate  for  me  to  be  your  wife.  You 
,  will,  however,  have  no  objection  to  my  congratu- 
j  lating  you  on  the  charming  being  you  have  gain- 
ed, and  to  whom  you  have  addressed  such  very 
1  passionate  vows. " 

i      "This  woman,"  said  Lord  Chetwynde,  "  hard- 
'  ly  deserves  to  be  treated!  with  ordinary  civility. 
I  At  any  rate,  she  is  not  fit  for  tjoii,"  he  added,  in 
i  a  low  voice,  to  Zillah  ;  "and  you  are  too  agitated 
for  further  excitement.    Shall  I  lead  you  away?" 
"  Kot  yet,"  said  Zillah,  "  till  I  have  asked  one 
question.      Hilda  KriefF,"  she  continued,  "an- 
swer me  one  thing,  and  an.swer  me  truly.    What 
was  it  that  made  you  seek  my  death  ?    Will  you 
answer  ?" 

" With plettsuve,".said Hilda,  mockingly.  "Be- 
cause I  hated  you." 
" Hated  mo!" 

"  Yes,  hated  you  always,  intensely,  bitterly, 
passionately." 

"  And  why       What  had  I  ever  done?" 
"Nothing.      The  reason  of  my  hate  was  in 
other  things.     I  will  tell  you.     Because  I  was 
your  father's  daughter,  and  you  supplanted  me." 
"You!     Impossible!" 

"I  will  tell  you.  In  my  childhood  he  was 
fond  of  me.  I  was  taken  to  India  at  an  early 
age.  After  you  were  born  he  forgot  all  about 
me.  Once  I  was  jilaying,  and  he  talked  to  me 
with  his  old  affection.  I  had  a  locket  around 
my  neck  with  this  name  on  it — '  Jli/du  Poine- 
roy.'  He  happened  to  look  at  it,  and  read  the 
name.  'Ah,'  said  he,  'that  is  a  better  name 
than  Hilda  Kriefl'.  My  child,  I  wish  you  could 
wear  that  name.'  I  wanted  him  to  tell  me  what 
he  meant,  but  he  wouldn't.  At  another  time  he 
spoke  of  you  as  being  my  'little  sister.'  He 
frequently  called  me  daughter.  At  last  I  found 
some  old  jjapers  of  my  mother's,  when  I  saw 
that  her  name  was  Hilda  I'omeroy,  and  then  I 
understood  it  all.  8he  was  his  first  wife,  though 
I  believe  now  that  they  wore  not  married.  He, 
of  course,  deceived  her,  and  though  she  thought 
she  was  his  wife,  yet  her  child  could  not  take  his 
name.  I  asked  liiin  this,  but  he  refused  to  ex- 
phiin,  and  warned  me  never  to  mentiim  the  sub- 
ject. This  only  showed  me  still  more  plainly 
the  miserable  truth. 

"  Years  passed.  I  found  myself  driven  out 
from  my  father's  affections.  You  wei  o  the  world 
to  him.  I,  his  eldest  daughter,  was  nothing. 
You  were  his  heiress.  Good  (iod !  woman,  do 
you  think  I  could  help  hating  one  who  calmly 
appropriated  every  thing  that  ought  to  be  mine? 
"Now  you  know  about  as  much  as  you  need 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


257 


Iht 


know.  I  began  years  ago  to  plan  against  you, 
and  kept  it  up  witli  never-t'ailin;;  jjatience.  It 
was  the  only  jileasiire  I  had  in  life.  I  won't  go 
into  |iarti('ulurs.  I'll  only  .-iay  that  nearly  all 
your  troubles  came  through  my  management. 
From  time  to  time  hereafter  you  will  gradually 
remember  various  things,  and  think  with  tender 
regret  upon  your  loving  Hilda. 

"At  last  things  were  all  ripe,  and  I  slipped 
away.  I  got  you  out  of  the  way  also,  and  I  frank- 
ly avow  that  I  never  expected  to  have  the  pleas- 
ure of  seeing  you  again.  I  also  hoped  that  Lord 
t;hetwynde  would  not  come  back  from  India. 
Hut  he  came,  and  there  is  where  I  broke  down. 
That  is  all  I  have  to  say." 

Hilda  stojjped,  and  looked  defiantly  at  them. 

"  Young  woman,"  said  Ohed  Chute,  in  calm, 
measured  tones,  "you  are  very  aggravating.  It 
is  well  that  you  have  generous  people  to  deal 
with.  I  don't  know  but  that  I  ought  to  take 
you  now  and  hand  you  over  to  the  police,  to  be 
lodged  in  the  same  cell  with  your  friend  Gual- 
Uer;  but — " 

" Gualtier!"  groaned  Hilda.     "  What?" 

"  Yes,  (iualtier.  I  caught  him  yesterday,  and 
handed  him  over  to  the  police." 

Hilda  looked  around  wildly,  and  with  a  deep- 
er despair  in  her  heart. 

"You,"  continued  Obed,  "are  much  worse 
than  he.  In  this  business  he  was  only  your  tool. 
Hut  you're  a  woman,  and  are,  therefore,  sacred. 
You  are  safe.  It  would  be  better,  however,  and 
much  more  becoming  in  you,  to  refrain  from 
that  aggravating  way  of  speaking  which  you  have 
just  used.  But  there  is  one  question  which  I  wish 
to  ask,  and  then  our  interview  will  terminate : 

"  You  say  you  believe  yourself  to  be  the  elder 
daughter  of  General  PomeroyV" 

"Yes." 

"  Do  you  know  vonr  mother's  maiden  name  ?" 

"Ye.s.     Hilda  krieti." 

"  Did  she  ever  tell  you  about  her  marriage?" 

"  I  was  too  young  when  she  died." 

"  Did  you  ever  see  any  record  of  her  mar- 
riage ?" 

"No." 

"You  know  nothing  definite  about  it,  then  ?" 

"No." 

"  Well,  then,  allow  me  to  inform  you  that  j-on 
arc  as  much  astray  here  as  you  were  in  that  oth- 
er thing.  This  Hilda  Krieft'  was  the  wife  of 
I'emberton  I'omeroy — married  after  his  elope- 
ment business.  He  took  her  name.  You  were 
their  daughter.  1  saw  you  once  or  twice  when 
visiting  him.  You  were  then  a  baby.  Neville 
I'omeroy  took  charge  of  your  mother  and  you 
after  your  father's  death.  These  are  the  facts  of 
the  case." 

"What  is  all  this?"  cried  Zillah,  eagerly,  as 
she  heard  these  names.  "Do  you  know  about 
papa?" 

"This  lady  came  here  with  some  questions 
about  a  cipher  writing  which  she  had  misunder- 
stood, and  I  explained  it  all.  She  thought  the 
(ieneral  was  guilty,  but  I  explained  that  he  wa« 
the  best  fellow  that  ever  lived.  It's  too  long  to 
tell  now.     I'll  explain  it  all  to  von  to-morrow." 

"Oh,  thank  God  !  '  murmured  Zillah. 

"  What !  you  couldn't  have  believed  it  ?"  cried 
Obed  Chute! 

"Never!  never!"  said  Zillah;   "though  she 
tried  hard  to  make  me." 
R 


Hilda  had  no  more  to  say.  The  news  about 
Gualtier,  and  the  truth  as  to  her  parentage,  were 
fresh  shocks,  and  already  her  strength  began  to 
give  way.  Her  spirit  coidd  not  long  be  kept  up 
to  that  height  of  audacity  to  which  she  had  raised 
it.  Ij3neath  all  was  tlie  blackness  of  her  de- 
spair, ,n  which  was  not  one  ray  of  hope. 

She  rose  in  silence.  Obed  accompanied  her 
to  hei  carriage,  which  was  yet  waiting  there. 
{Soon  the  wheels  rattled  over  the  gravel,  and 
Hilda  drove  toward  Florence. 

Obed  walked  out  and  saimtored  through  the 
grounds.  There  was  a  twinkle  in  his  eye.  Hi- 
walked  on,  and  on,  till  he  reached  a  place  in  the 
depths  of  the  woods  far  away  from  the  villa. 

Then  he  gave  utterance  to  his  feelings. 

How? 

Did  he  clench  his  fists,  curse  Heaven,  weep,, 
and  rave  ? 

Not  he ;  not  Obed. 

He  burst  forth  into  peals  of  stentorian  laugh- 
ter. 

"Oh,  dear!"  he  screamed.  "Oh,  creation! 
Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha,  ha!  Oh,  Lord!  making  love  on 
the  sly !  getting  si>ooney !  taking  romantic  walksl 
reading  poetry !  and  all  to  his  own  wife  I  Oh, 
ho,  ho !  Ha,  ha,  ha,  ha !  And  he  stole  otT  with 
her  at  the  masquerade,  and  made  a  'passionate 
declaration" — to  his — good  thunder! — his  u-ifr! 
his  own  wife .'  Oh,  Lord  I  oh.  Lord!  I'll  never 
get  over  this!" 

He  certainly  did  not  get  over  it  for  at  least 
two  hours. 

He  had  at  last  fully  comprehended  the  whole 
thing.  Now  the  true  state  of  mind  between  the 
quondam  Windham  and  Miss  Lorton  became  evi- 
dent. Now  he  began  to  suspect  how  desjierately 
they  had  been  in  love.  A  thousand  little  incidents 
occurred  to  his  memory,  and  each  one  brought 
on  a  fresh  exi)lo8ion.  Even  his  own  |)roposal  to 
Zillah  was  remembered.  He  wondered  whether 
Windham  had  jjrojiosed  also,  and  been  rejected. 
This  only  was  needed  to  his  mind  to  complete  the 
joke. 

For  two  hours  the  servants  at  the  nlla  heard 
singular  noises  in  the  woods,  and  passers-by 
heard  with  awe  the  same  mysterious  sounds.  It 
was  Obed  enjoying  the  "joke."  It  was  not  until 
quite  late  that  he  had  fully  exhausted  it. 


CHAPTER  LXXIX. 

MUTUAL  UNDEUSTANDING. 

Mf:anwhile  Lord  Chetwynde  and  Zillah  were 
left  together,  A  few  hours  before  they  had  been 
sitting  in  this  same  room,  alone,  when  Mrs.  Hart 
entered.  Mnce  then  what  wonders  had  taken 
place !  What  an  overturn  to  life !  What  an 
opening  into  unlooked-for  hapjnness!  For  a 
few  moments  they  stood  looking  at  one  another, 
not  yet  able  to  realize  the  full  weight  of  the  hap- 
piness that  had  come  so  suddenly.  And  as  they 
looked,  eoch  could  read  in  the  face  of  the  other 
all  the  soul  of  each,  which  was  made  manifest, 
and  the  full,  unrestrained  exj)ression  of  the  long- 
ing which  each  had  felt. 

Lord  Chetwynde  folded  her  in  his  arms. 

"What  is  all  this?"  he  said,  in  a  low  voice. 
"  What  can  it  mean  ?  I  can  not  yet  believe  it ; 
can  you  ?     What,  my  darling,  are  we  not  to  have 


258 


THE  CRYPTOGKAM. 


our  stolen  interviews  any  more?  Ilnvo  we  no 
longer  our  great  secret  to  keep  ?  Are  you  renlly 
mine  ?  I  don't  understand,  but  I'm  cohtent  to 
hold  you  in  my  arms.     <  )h,  my  wife !" 

Zilliih  murmured  some  inaudible  protest,  but 
her  own  bewilderment  hud  not  yet  passed  away. 
In  that  moment  the  first  thougiit  was  that  her 
IIW11  Windham  was  at  last  all  lier  own  in  veiy 
tnilii. 

"And  are  you  sure,"  she  said  at  last,  "that 
you  have  got  over  your  abhorrence  of  me?" 

Lord  Chetwynde  did  not  understand  this  ques- 
tion, but  considering  it  a  joke,  he  responded  in 
tlie  customary  manner. 

"  But  tvhat  possible  means  could  have  induced 
you  to  leave  Chetwynde  Castle  at  all  ?"  he  asked  ; 
for,  as  he  had  not  yet  heard  her  story,  he  was  all 
in  the  dark. 

"  Because  you  wrote  that  hideous,  that  horri- 
ble letter,"  said  Zillah ;  and  as  the  memory  of 
that  letter  came  to  her  she  made  an  elibrt  to 
draw  away  from  his  embrace.  But  the  eft'ort 
was  fruitless. 

"  Hideous  letter !     What  letter ?" 

"The  last  one." 

"  My  darling,  I  don't  know  what  you  mean." 

"  Don't  you  remember  how  you  reviled 
me?" 

"  I  didn't ;  I  don't  understand." 

"You  called  me  a  Hindu,  and  an  imp." 

"  Good  Heavens !  what  do  you  mean  ?" 

"  But  you  do  not  hate  me  now,  do  you  ?  Tell 
me,  and  tell  me  truly,  are  you  sure  that  your  ab- 
horrence has  all  jjassed  away  ?" 

"Abhorrence!" 

"Ah!  you  need  not  fear  to  coHfess  it  now. 
You  did  abhor  me,  you  know." 

"  On  my  honor,  I  do  not  know  what  you  are 
talking  about,  my  own  darling.  I  never  wrote 
about  you  except  with  respect ;  and  that,  too,  in 
spite  of  those  awful,  cutting,  sneering  letters 
which  you  wrote  for  years,  and  that  last  one, 
written  after  my  father's  death. " 

"Heavens!  what  do  you  mean?"  cried  Zillah, 
aghast.  "I  sent  letters  to  you  regularly,  but  I 
never  wrote  any  thing  but  affectionate  words." 

"  Affectionate  words !  I  never  received  a  let- 
ter that  was  not  a  sneer  or  an  insult.  I  came 
home  under  an  assumed  name,  thinking  that  I 
would  visit  Chetwynde  unknown,  to  see  what 
sort  of  a  person  this  was  who  had  treated  me  so. 
I  changed  my  intention,  however,  and  went  there 
in  my  own  name.  I  found  that  woman  there — 
an  impostor.  How  was  I  to  know  tiiat  ?  But  I 
hated  her  from  the  outset." 

"Ah,"  said  Zillah,  "you  were  then  full  of 
memories  of  Inez  Cameron." 

This  thought  had  suddenly  stung  her,  and, 
forgetting  the  Windham  of  Marseilles,  she  flung 
it  out. 

"Of  what?  Inez?  What  is  that?"  asked 
Lord  Chetwynde,  in  a  puzzle. 

"Inez  Cameron." 

"  Inez  Cameron  !     Who  is  Inez  Cameron  ?" 

"  Inez  Cameron,"  said  Zillah,  wondering — 
"  that  fair  companion  of  so  many  evenings,  about 
\yhom  you  wrote  in  such  impassioned  language 
— whose  imago  you  said  was  ever  in  your  heart." 

"  In  the  name  of  Heaven,"  cried  Lord  Chet- 
wynde, "what  is  it  that  you  mean?  Who  is 
she?" 

"Captain  Cameron's  sister,"  said  Zillah. 


"Captain  Cameron's  sister?" 

"Yes." 

"Captain  Cameron  has  no  sister.  I  never 
saw  any  one  named  Inez  Cameron.  I  ne\er 
mentioned  such  a  name  in  any  letter,  and  I  nev- 
er had  any  image  in  my  heart  except  yours,  my 
darling." 

"  Why,  what  does  it  all  mean  ?" 

"  It  means  this,"  said  Lord  Chetwynde,  "  that 
we  have  for  years  been  the  victims  of  some  dark 
l)lot,  whose  de])ths  we  have  not  yet  even  imag- 
ined, and  whose  subtle  workings  we  have  not  yet 
begun  to  trace.  Here  we  arc,  my  darling,  ask- 
ing questions  of  one  another  whose  meaning  we 
can  not  imagine,  and  making  charges  which  nei- 
ther of  us  undei-stand.  You  speak  of  some  letter 
which  I  wrote  containing  statements  that  I  nev- 
er thought  of.  You  mention  some  Inez  Cam- 
eron, a  lady  whom  I  never  heard  of  before. 
You  say  also  that  you  never  wrote  those  letters 
which  imbittered  my  life  so  much." 

"  Never,  never.  I  never  wrote  any  thing  but 
kindness." 

"Then  who  wrote  them?" 

"Oh!"  cried  Zillah,  suddenly,  as  a  light  burst 
on  her;  "I  see  it  all!  But  is  it  possible?  Yes, 
that  must  be  it.  And  if  you  did  not  write  that 
last  letter,  then  she  wrote  it," 

".S7(«.'    Who'?" 

"  Hilda." 

Hereupon  ensued  a  long  explanation,  the  end 
of  which  was  that  each  began  to  understand 
better  the  state  of  the  case.  And  Lord  Chet- 
wynde exulted  at  finding  that  all  the  baseness 
which  he  had  imagined  against  his  wife  was  the 
work  of  another ;  and  Zillah  felt  ecstasy  in  the 
thought  that  Lord  Chetwynde  had  never  loathed 
her,  and  had  never  carried  in  his  despairing  heart 
the  image  of  that  dreaded  and  hated  phantom, 
Inez  Cameron. 

"  The  fact  is,  I  couldn't  have  written  that  let- 
ter for  another  reason,  little  girl.  I  always  made; 
allowances  even  for  those  letters  which  you  did 
not  write,  and  nntil  that  last  one  came  I  always 
laid  great  stress  on  my  father's  love  for  you,  and 
hoped  some  day  to  gain  your  love. " 

"  And  that  you  would  have  done  in  the  ordi- 
nary way  if  we  had  met  in  Chetwynde  Castle." 

"Would  I,  indeed?" 

"  Yes,"  sighed  Zillah  ;  "  for  I  think  I  learned 
to  love  you  from  your  letters  to  your  father." 

"Oh  no!  no,  no,"  laughed  Lord  Chetwynde  ; 
"  for  did  you  not  at  once  fall  in  love  with  that 
Windham?" 

Ho  the  time  passed. 

But  nmitlst  these  murmurs  of  affection,  and 
these  explanations  of  vanished  mysteries.  Lord 
Chetwynde  caught  himself  looking  to  the  past 
few  months  at  Florence. 

' '  Oh,  those  interviews !"  he  munnured,  "  those 
sweet,  stolen  interviews!" 

"Why,  t^ir,"  said  Zillah,  "you  speak  as  though 
you  feel  sorry  for  all  this  !" 

"No,  my  darling.  My  fond  recollection  of 
these  can  not  interfere  with  my  joy  at  the  pres- 
ent ;  for  the  great  meaning  of  this  present  is  that 
while  we  live  we  shall  never  part  again." 

Lord  Chetwynde  did  not  go  back  to  Florence 
that  night.  There  were  a  thousand  things  to 
talk  over.  On  the  following  day  Obed  explained 
all  about  the  cipher,  and  told  many  stories  about 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


259 


I 


his  early  aBSOciation  with  Neville  Pomeroy.  These 
thint;8  took  up  all  the  next  day.  Lord  Chet- 
wyndo  was  in  no  hurry  now.  His  Indian  ap- 
|)ointment  was  quietly  given  up.  lie  had  no  im- 
mediate desire  to  go  to  his  lodgings,  and  OI)ed 
insisted  that  Lord  and  Lady  Chetwynde  should 
bo  his  guests  during  their  stay  in  Florence. 

To  tliis  Lord  and  Lady  Chetwynde  agreed, 
and  enforced  a  promise  from  (Jbed  Chute  that  he 
would  be  their  guest  in  Chetwynde  Castle. 

Sometimes  their  thoughts  turned  on  Hilda. 
They  had  no  desire  to  jjursuo  her.  To  Zillah 
she  was  an  old  friend ;  and  her  treason  was  not 
n  thing  which  could  be  ]iunished  in  a  court  of 
justice.  To  Lord  Chetwynde  she  was,  after  all, 
the  woman  who  iiad  saved  his  life  with  what  still 
seemed  to  him  like  matchless  devotion.  He 
knew  well,  what  Zillah  never  knew,  how  passion- 
ately Hilda  loved  him.  To  Obed  Ciiute,  finally, 
she  was  a  woman,  and  now  undeniably  a  woman 
in  distress.  That  was  enough.  "  Let  the  poor 
thing  go ;  I  half  wish  that  I  could  save  her  from 
going  to  the  devil."    Such  were  his  sentiments. 

On  the  second  day  Lord  Chetwjiide  drove  in 
to  his  rooms.  He  returned  looking  very  pale 
and  grave.  Zillah,  who  had  gone  out  smilingly 
to  greet  him,  wondered  at  this. 

"  We  talked  about  sparing  her,"  said  he,  softly. 
*'  My  darling  wife,  she  is  beyond  our  reach  now. " 

Zillah  looked  at  him  with  fearful  inquiry. 

"She  has  gone — she  is  dead!" 

"  Dead !"  ciied  Zillah,  in  a  voice  of  horror. 

"  Yes,  and  by  her  own  hand." 

Lord  Chetwynde  then  told  her  that  on  reach- 
ing his  rooms  he  was  waited  on  by  the  comdenje, 
who  informed  him  that  on  the  previous  day  the 
lady  whom  the  concierge  supposed  to  be  his  wife 
was  found  dead  in  her  bed  by  her  maid.  No  one 
knew  the  cause.  The  absence  of  her  husband 
was  much  wondered  at.  Lord  Chetwynde  was 
so  much  shocked  that  his  deportment  would  have 
befitted  one  who  was  really  a  bereaved  husband. 
On  questioning  the  maid  he  found  that  she  had 
her  suspicions.  She  had  found  a  vial  on  the  ta- 
ble by  the  bed,  about  which  she  had  said  nothing. 
She  knew  her  duty  to  a  noble  family,  and  held 
her  tongue.  She  gave  the  vial  to  Lord  Chet- 
wynde, who  recognized  the  presence  of  strych- 
nine. The  unhappy  one  had  no  doubt  commit- 
ted suicide.  There  was  a  letter  addressed  to 
him,  which  he  took  away.  It  was  a  long  manu- 
script, and  contained  a  full  account  of  all  that 
she  had  done,  together  with  the  most  passionate 
declarations  of  her  love.  Ho  thought  it  best,  on 
the  whole,  not  to  show  this  to  Zillah. 

He  knew  that  she  had  committed  suicide,  but 
he  did  not  know,  nor  did  any  living  being,  the 
anguish  that  must  have  filled  the  wretched  one 
as  she  nerved  her  heart  for  the  act.  All  this 
he  could  conjecture  from  her  letter,  which  told 
him  how  often  she  had  meditated  this.  At  last 
it  had  come.  Leaving  the  villa  in  her  despair, 
she  had  gone  to  her  lodgings,  passed  the  night  in 
writing  this  manuscript,  and  then  flung  her  guilty 
soul  into  the  presence  of  her  Maker. 

As  Lord  Chetwynde  had  not  gone  into  Fter^ 
entine  society  at  all,  Hilda's  death  created  but 
little  sensation.  There  was  no  scandal  connect- 
ed with  his  name  ;  there  was  no  bewildering  ex- 
planation of  things  that  might  have  seemed  in- 
credible. All  wiis  quieted,  and  even  hate  itself 
was  buried  in  ths  grave  of  the  dead. 


The  death  of  Hilda  gave  a  shock  to  those  who 
had  known  her,  even  though  they  had  suffered 
by  her ;  but  there  was  another  thing  which  gave 
sadness  in  the  midst  of  new-found  luqjpiness. 
When  Mrs.  Hart  had  left  the  room,  after  that 
eventful  evening  when  she  had  found  Lord  Chet- 
wynde and  Zilliili,  she  was  taken  to  her  bed. 
From  that  bed  she  was  destined  never  to  rise 
again.  During  the  last  few  months  she  had 
suffered  more  than  she  could  bear.  Had  she 
lived  in  (juiet  at  Chetwynde,  life  might  possibly 
have  been  prolonged  for  a  few  years.  Hut  the 
illness  which  she  had  at  Chetwynde  had  worn 
her  down ;  and  she  had  scarce  risen  from  her 
bed,  and  begun  to  totter  about  the  house,  than 
she  fled  on  a  wild  and  desperate  errand.  She 
had  gone,  half  dying,  to  Florence,  to  search  aft- 
er Lord  Chetwynde,  so  as  to  warn  him  of  what 
she  suspected.  Her  anxiety  for  him  had  given 
her  a  fitful  and  spasmodic  strength,  which  had 
sustained  her.  The  little  jewelry  which  she  pos- 
sessed furnished  the  means  for  prolonging  a  life 
which  she  only  cherished  till  she  might  find  Lord 
Chetwynde.  For  weeks  she  had  kept  np  her 
search,  growing  feebler  every  day,  and  every 
day  spending  more  and  more  of  her  little  store, 
struggling  vehemently  against  that  mortal  weak- 
ness which  she  felt  in  all  her  frame,  and  bear- 
ing up  constantly  even  amidst  despair.  At  last 
Ol)ed  Chute  had  found  her.  She  had  seen  "  her 
boy" — she  had  found  him  with  Zillah.  The  dan- 
ger which  she  had  feared  seemed  to  her  to  have 
been  averted,  she  knew  not  how ;  and  her  cup 
was  full. 

A  mighty  revulsion  of  feeling  took  place  from 
the  depths  of  despair  to  the  heights  of  ha|)pi- 
ness.  Her  purpose  was  realized.  There  was  no- 
thing more  to  live  for. 

But  now,  since  that  purpose  was  gained,  the 
false  strength  which  had  sustained  her  so  long 
gave  way  utterly.  Her  weary  frame  was  at  last 
extended  upon  a  bed  from  which  she  would  no 
longer  be  compelled  to  rise  for  the  watch  and  the 
march  and  the  vigil.  Her  labor  was  over.  Now 
came  the  reaction.  Rajiidly  she  yielded.  It 
seemed  as  though  joy  had  killed  her.  Not  so.  A 
great  purpose  had  given  her  a  fictitious  strength  ; 
and  now,  when  the  purpose  was  accomplished, 
the  strength  departed,  and  a  weakness  set  in  com- 
mensurate with  the  strength — the  weakness  of 
approaching  dissolution. 

Slie  herself  knew  that  all  was  over.  She  would 
not  have  it  otherwise.  She  was  glad  that  it  was 
so.  It  was  with  her  now  a  time  to  chant  a  nunr 
dimittis — welcome  death !  Life  :iad  nothing 
more  to  offer. 

Once  again  Zillah  stood  at  her  bedside,  con- 
stant and  loved  and  loving.  But  there  was  one 
whose  presence  inspired  a  deeper  joy,  for  whom 
her  dying  eyes  watched — dying  eyes  wistful  in 
their  watch  for  him.  How  she  had  watched 
during  the  past  months !  How  those  eyes  had 
strained  themselves  through  the  throngs  of  pass- 
ers-by at  Florence,  while,  day  by  day,  the  light 
of  hope  grew  dimmer!  Now  they  waited  for 
his  coming,  and  his  approach  never  failed  to 
bring  to  them  the  kindling  light  of  perfect  joy. 

Lord  Chetwynde  himself  was  true  to  that  fond 
affection  which  he  had  always  expressed  for  her 
and  shown.  He  showed  himself  eager  to  give 
up  all  pleasures  and  all  recreations  for  the  sake 
of  being  by  her  bedside. 


260 


TlIK  CRYPTOGRAM. 


MY    BOV,   HAVE   YOU   EVEK    HUABD    AllOUT  YOUU   MOTHER?" 


On  this  Obed  Chute  used  to  look  witli  eyes 
that  sometimes  glistened  with  manly  tears. 

Days  passed  on,  and  Mrs.  Hart  grew  weaker. 
It  was  possible  to  count  tlie  hours  that  remained 
for  mortal  life.    A  strange  desolation  arose  in 


Lord  Chetwynde's  heart  as  the  prospect  of  her 
end  lowered  before  him. 

One  day  Mrs.  Hart  was  nlone  with  him.  Obeil 
Chute  had  called  away  Zillah  for  some  purpose 
or  other.     Before  doing  so  ho  liad  whispered 


THE  CRYPTOGRAM. 


Ml 


fomethifiR  to  the  dying  wdtnnn.  As  tlioy  left 
.tlio  hold  out  her  hiind  to  Lord  ( 'lictwyiulo. 

"Come  hero  and  sit  nearer,"  siie  wniled 
forth — "neiircr;  take  my  hand,  imd  listen." 

Lord  ("hetwyndo  did  so.  lie  sat  in  a  chair 
liy  tlio  hedside,  and  held  her  hand.  Mrs.  Hart 
lay  for  a  moment  looking  at  him  with  an  uarncBt 
and  inexplicahle  gaze. 

"Oh!"  sho  inoniied,  "my  boy — my  little  Guy! 
fan  you  hctxv  what  I  am  going  to  say?  IJear 
it!  Be  merciful!  I  am  dying  now.  I  must 
tell  it  before  I  go.  You  will  be  merciful,  will 
you  not,  my  hoy  ?" 

"Do  not  talk  so,"  faltered  Lord  Chetwynde, 
in  deep  emotion. 

"Oh,  my  boy!"  said  Mra.  Ilnrf,  "do  you 
know — have  you  ever  heard  any  thing  about — 
vour — your  mother?" 

"My  mother?" 

"Yes." 

"  No ;  nothing  except  that  she  died  when  I 
was  an  infant." 

"Oh,  my  boy!  she  did  not  die,  though  death 
would  have  been  n  blessing." 

A  thrill  ])a8sed  throngii  Lord  Chetwynde. 

"Nurse!  nurse!"  he  cried — "my  dear  old 
nurse,  what  is'  it  that  you  mean  ?  My  mother? 
She  did  not  die  ?  Is  she  alive  ?  In  the  name  of 
(iod,  tell  me  all!" 

"  Mv  boy  I"  said  Mrs.  Hart,  grasping  the  hand 
that  held  hers  convulsively — "my  boy  !  can  you 
bear  it?" 

"Where  is  my  mother?"  asked  Lord  Chet- 
wynde. 

Mrs.  Ilart  strnggled  up.  For  a  moment 
she  leaned  on  her  elbow.  In  her  eyes  there 
gleamed  the  light  of  undying  love  —  love  deep, 
yearning,  unfathomable  —  love  stronger  than 
life.  It  was  but  u  faint  whisper  that  escai)ed 
her  wan,  white  lijjs.  but  that  whisper  jiierced 
to  the  soul  of  the  listener,  and  rang  through  all 
his  being  with  echoes  that  floated  down  through 
the  years. 

And  that  whisper  uttered  those  words : 

"  Oh,  my  son  !  I — / — nm  ytmr  mother  V^ 

A  low  moan  burst  from  Lord  C^hetwynde. 
He  caught  her  dying  form  in  his  arms,  and  a 
thousand  words  of  love  burst  from  him,  as  though 
by  that  embrace  and  by  those  words  of  love  he 
would  drag  her  back  fioni  her  immortality. 
And  then,  at  last,  in  that  embrace  and  in  the 


henriiig  of  those  words  of  love,  there  were  some 
few  moments  of  happiness  for  one  who  had  sinned 
and  suffered  so  much  ;  and  as  she  lay  back  her 
face  was  overspread  with  an  expression  of  unut- 
terable peace. 

When  Zillah  retinned  she  saw  I^ord  Chet- 
wynde bowed  down,  with  his  arms  chisping  the 
form  of  Mrs.  Hart.  The  smile  was  still  (.n  her 
face,  but  it  was  only  the  form  of  that  one  who 
had  sutf'ered  and  loved  so  much  which  now  hiy 
there ;  for  she  her.self  had  departed  from  eartii 
forever,  and  found  a  jilace  "  where  the  weary 
are  at  rest." 

Long  afterward  Zillah  learned  more  about  the 
past  history  of  that  woman  whom  she  had  known 
and  loved  as  Mrs.  Hart.  It  was  Obed  Chute 
who  told  her  this,  on  one  of  his  freiiuont  visits  to 
Chetwynde  Castle.  He  himself  had  heard  it 
from  the  former  Lady  Chetwynde,  at  the  time 
when  she  was  in  New  York,  and  before  she 
joined  the  Sisters  of  (Hiarity. 

Neville  I'omeroy  had  known  her  well  as  a  boy, 
and  they  had  carried  on  an  unmeaning  flirtation, 
which  might  have  developed  into  something  more 
serious  had  it  not  been  prevented  by  her  mother, 
who  was  on  the  look-out  for  something  higher. 
Lord  Chetwynde  met  her  ambitious  views,  and 
though  he  was  poor,  yet  his  title  and  bi-illiant 
prospects  dazzled  the  ambitious  mother.  The 
daughter  married  him  without  loving  him,  in  the 
ex|)ectation  of  a  lofty  p(>sition.  When  this  was 
lost  by  Lord  Chetwynde's  resignation  of  his  posi- 
tion she  coidd  not  forgive  him.  She  indulged 
in  folly  which  ended  in  sin,  until  she  was  weak 
and  wicked  enough  to  desert  the  man  whom  she 
had  sworn  to  love.  When  it  was  too  late  she 
had  rei)ented.  Neville  I'omeroy  and  Obed 
Chute  had  saved  her  from  ruin.  The  remainder 
of  her  life  was  evident.  She  had  left  the  .sisters 
of  Charity,  from  some  yearning  after  her  child, 
and  had  succeeded  in  gaining  emi)loyment  in 
Chetwynde  Castle.  Such  changes  had  been 
wrought  in  her  by  her  sufferings  that  the  I'^rl 
never  recognized  her;  and  so  she  had  lived, 
solacing  herself  with  her  child. 

The  knowledge  of  her  history,  which  was  after- 
ward communicated  to  her  son,  did  not  interfere 
with  his  filial  affection.  Her  remains  now  lie  in 
the  vaults  of  Chetwynde  Castle  beside  those  of 
the  Earl. 


THE  END. 


\ 


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